


Game On

by Kaname



Series: The Manchester Series [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sports, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Famous Derek, Football, Football | Soccer, Gaming, Jealous Derek, M/M, Nerd Stiles, Oblivious Stiles, Pre-Season/Series 03, Sports, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaname/pseuds/Kaname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Stiles whispers sweet nothings to his laptop and asks the gaming gods to bless him with quick fingers and an indestructible bladder. For gaming. Obviously.</p><p>What he didn’t ask for was a bitchy new guild-mate with a God complex and a famous next-door neighbor who plays footie and throws house parties every time Stiles is trying to sleep.</p><p>Or; The one where Stiles is a famous web denizen, and Derek is just plain famous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to the Neighborhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that, though this work is completed, it's in the process of being edited. <3
> 
> Work is rated 'M' for gratuitous swearing, references to death and suicidal ideation, and a truly irresponsible number of cliches.

⚽

**♪ _Bad Blood ~_ Taylor Swift ♪**

⚽

* * *

Stiles wasn’t allowed to use his microphone during raids. 

He was relatively sure that qualified as workplace discrimination—this game _was_ pretty much his job after all—but to do anything about it he’d have to write an email or something—which, just, _ugh._

Plus, once he'd moved past the actual ‘bitching’ part of the process, Stiles had decided to give up in favor of passively-aggressively messaging Danny dozens upon dozens of cat facts.

The trick is that you can  _never unsubscribe._

Anyway, he’d lost mic privileges last raid, and hadn’t been allowed on TeamSpeak for at least a week. Which was definitely excessive, if you asked him, though on the whole no one ever did. Whatever. It was something about Danny telling him to shut up a solid seven times during the boss fight that had gotten him kicked off. A count which was questionable, at best.

It was definitely more like twenty.

Besides, they were the top raiding guild on the server, and they'd lost to a tier  _four_ boss. Fourth tier in a ten tier system was pretty damn pathetic, even for a late night run. The thing didn't even drop any epic items—it had been a routine run for resources. Lydia was trying to max out her tailoring, and needed a desperately large amount of cloth that no one wanted to pay for. So they'd lost to a tier four boss. For _linen_.

Christ, you couldn’t pin that kind of epic fail on his hyperactivity.

Stiles shoved another handful of baby carrots into his mouth and physically shook the thoughts away, ranch dribbling lazily down the center of his bottom lip as he gazed mournfully at the droopy-looking audio equipment next to his monitor. He licked the dressing away solemnly, muttering apologies to her for for his continued neglect, stroking her hard plastic thoughtfully with one hand and picking up another bite of glorious orange flesh with the other.

He'd been saving up for a new mic for, like, a solid three months now. One that he fully intended to name Mickey and marry off his old beater of a microphone to in spirit. But, as a rule, Stiles was pretty shite at saving money—and this was no exception. He hated to tap into his savings, even though he knew his dad wouldn't mind, so he tried to live mostly on the occasional shift at Scott's clinic and advertising revenue from his blog, without so much as looking at the bank account.

It was meager, but he made it count.

Stiles was still tallying how much he could spend on groceries this week when his avatar suddenly took damage, jolting him and sending his bowl clattering to the floor, leaving the only edible carrot the one in his left hand.

“Fuck you too,” he murmured through a full mouth to the orc that had attacked him from behind.

_Bam!_

The echo of a hard impact rang sharply through his spacious second-floor apartment, and if it was at all possible, his heart began beating even faster. Stiles cocked a brow and slowly lowered the lone, final carrot he’d been spinning halfheartedly between his fingers onto the desk. He quickly logged out as soon he'd beaten the monster, turning his chair to face the door.

_New neighbor?_

Maybe he’d actually get a neighbor worth giving a shite about this time.

Allison had been interesting enough, but it’s bloody difficult to bond with the girl next door when you can hear your best friend boning her more frequently than he bothers to breathe. Stiles had had to have a serious talk with Scott about the importance of a refractory period—both for the well-being of Scott’s penis and for Stiles’s sanity.

Still, refractory period or nay, tuning in to any amount of loud best-friend sex didn’t really lend itself to forming a healthy relationship with your neighbor. It’s a little too personal. He’d tried to figure out what sort of conversation starters you could glean from someone's favorite sexually-charged exclamations, but that had mostly just led him to some questionable porn and one poorly formatted Tumblr page that he, regrettably, still followed.

Well, 'questionable' was what he called it in the outside world, 'Sunday night' was what he called it in his head.

The moral of the story was basically the same once you moved past the arguably arousing videos that littered the search page, though: The things you learn about someone living vicariously through their sex life don’t exactly transfer well to “polite company.”

_So, Allison, I hear you’re insecure about the size of your nipples. How’s that holding up for ya?_

Yeah, that hadn’t gone well. Stiles didn't have many boundaries, but Scott was the one responsible for helping him find and define most of them. He no longer mentioned the size of Allison’s nipples.

“Fuck!” He heard a muffled voice yell gruffly from somewhere outside his apartment.

Stiles had only just blinked back to the frosty coolness of reality, jarred by this guy's incessant (borderline animal) growling, when suddenly a loud thump and a string of increasingly unsavory curses filled the stagnant air of his apartment. Whoever his neighbor was seemed to be having a right time of it with some table or another.

“Sounds like a winner already,” he muttered to no one in particular, shoving a pair of over-sized headphones over his ears, and trying hard to ignore any impulse he had to scope out the new guy next door. He clicked lazily through his bids in the auction house, his carrots still lying limp, sad and abandoned on the floor.

But even Henry and Henrietta, his beloved headphones, couldn’t block out the stampede that followed a mere five minutes later. A series of obnoxiously squeaky and sneaker-ed feet stomped up the stairs like a herd of rubber elephants, whooping and shouting in a manner that was wholly inappropriate for a child's birthday party, let alone  _his apartment building._

“Hale!”

“Derek!”

“Look, you git, let us in, or I swear—"

Stiles twitched.

“Get your fucking arse out here!”

“Hale, come on—”

“Look, you wanker...”

Without thinking, he slammed his headphones down onto his desk and stormed out the front door of his flat, stopping at the edge of his doorway and leveling his gaze at the group in front of apartment 24A.

All ten, _ten_ , of them were crowding around the door, carrying beaten-up boxes and black leather furniture, ruffled, sweaty and swearing. The one in the center, tall, blonde, and devastatingly handsome, was still whinging about whatever git lived in the apartment next door, his voice coarse and loud. "Derek, you need to let us  _in_ before my arms fall off!" _  
_

Stiles crossed his arms, cocked a hip, and tried his best to look bitchy and intimidating. Fuck him if this was going to become a daily thing.

“Would you quiet it down, you _g_ _its_? I don't know what sort of row the hundred of you are having, but do you have any idea how fucking _loud_ you’re being?”

That had definitely come out harsher than he’d intended. He huffed and uncrossed his arms, shoving his hands in his pockets and waiting as all ten sets of eyes turned to appraise him.

_Silence._

Stiles blinked and finally looked at the group he’d been berating, a tight knot forming in his throat.

Oh shite.

Holy fuck.

These people...these _men..._ were the starters for Manchester United.

Every single one of them.

Stiles broke into a cold sweat.

“What the hell is going on out here?” The same gruff voice from earlier asked, the man of the hour finally deigning to open his goddamn door. He barely acknowledged the group of glaring young men surrounding the entrance to 24A, before raising a brow and smirking in Stiles’ general direction.

He was dark, handsome and _built_ —everything that sent blood straight to all the places it wasn’t supposed to be when Stiles was this _well terrified_. Derek. Derek Hale. Starter for Manchester United, Hottie McHotterson, wet-dream-fotter-extraordinaire. He offered Stiles a cool, condescending smirk that filled his stomach with a combination of ice and fire.

“I take it you’re my new neighbor?” Hale drew out lazily, like he was savouring the words where they touched his tongue.

Stiles swallowed hard.

Fuck.


	2. Favor

⚽

 **♪** _ **Ugly Heart ~**_ **G.R.L.** **♪**

⚽ 

* * *

_Stilinator : Sorry guys._

“Are you serious, Stiles? You ditched us because your neighbor’s “loud” and your prissy little arse can’t multitask?”

_Stilinator : This would be easier if you let me back on TeamSpeak, Danny._

“Dude, I’m not masochistic enough to pull that shite."

_Stilinator : Fucker._

* * *

If Stiles thought Allison and Scott were loud, he had absolutely no idea what to call  _this_ shit show.

Stiles lowered his head onto his desk, groaning loudly and clutching the soft foam of his headphones tightly against his ears. His character swayed lazily in the center of his computer's brightly lit screen, untouched for a solid thirty minutes while Stiles was busy bemoaning his life and fruitlessly tossing carrot sticks at the wall.

His guild-mates had long since decided to abandon his stationary ass at the beginning of the dungeon, and Stiles honestly couldn’t find it in himself to care. He’d been too busy trying to drown out rave levels of noise to do _anything,_ other than lay on his desk, utterly knackered despite being dreadfully sober. He hadn't had the extra cash to get a bottle of whisky when he'd gone shopping yesterday, though he was pretty sure if he'd known that parties were going to be a thing, he'd have gladly given up his toilet paper for a goddamn drink. 

He sniffed, the throbbing bass continuing to bleed through the headphones’ thick padding and seeping into every pore of Stiles’ exhausted, aching body. Resigned, he drew lazy circles on his desk with one hand and shoved his useless headphones down around his neck with the other.

Did this git ever sleep? Like, seriously, at  _all?_

Stiles wasn’t one to go to bed early, but shite, that didn’t mean he didn’t go to bed at  _all._ How many parties can someone have before they actually just pass out?

Stiles wasn’t even picky about how he got his treasured silence anymore. Alcohol poisoning, exhaustion, justifiable homicide—whatever made Manchester United number 20, Derek Hale, put a sock in it was totally okay in his book. He’d deal with law enforcement, and consequently his father, later.

He glanced mournfully at the clock: **3:46**. Hale had fourteen minutes before Stiles “accidentally” set his footy-playing, perfectly-rounded ass on fire. It would be a waste of prime real estate, but it wasn’t like he was in any state to take well good advantage of it right now, anyway.

Stiles continued his sighing until a rapid-fire set of knocks on his front door drew him out of his stupor. He blinked back the bleariness in his eyes, pulling lazily at the lobe of his ear and pivoting in his wheelie chair to face the source of the racket. Yes, his desk was right in the center of his living room. So sue him. It was closer to the kitchen, and it wasn't like Stiles was known for his love of physical activity.

Anyway, what could someone bloody well want at 4am? Whoever it was should consider themselves lucky that he hadn't yelled "Sod off!" and called the police. Other than people looking to nick your stuff, the only other thing anyone did this time of night didn’t usually come gift wrapped, condom in hand, dignity discarded along with his or her pants halfway up Stiles’ apartment stairs. At least, not without some sort of prompting. You had to work or pay for that kind of service, and Stiles wasn’t fond of either option.

Maybe it was an accident? A “wrong apartment” type of problem? The drunk weren’t exactly known for their adept sense of direction.

Stiles clumsily unplugged his headphones, wrapping them up beside his monitor and waiting impatiently, his eyes trained on and narrowed at his apartment door. Maybe they'd gotten the hint that Stiles wasn't interested in late night visitors. Or, you know, asleep. Like he should've been.

_Knock knock…knock knock knock…_

He growled. “Shite—wait a second!”

Stiles threw on the dingy white t-shirt he’d discarded on his living room floor earlier, running an annoyed hand through his messy mop of brown hair. He took a deep breath and then propped himself against the door-frame, swinging it open tentatively.

“Hey, do you think I could use your washroom? Someone’s hogging Derek’s.”

What?

Stiles sized up the man standing in his doorway, and every inch of his body practically _screamed_ for him to retreat back into his cluttered apartment and curl into a tight, armadillo-esque ball. Maybe he could even pray for the sudden appearance of someone far stronger and braver than he to defend his honour. Ball or nay, he _surely_ shouldn’t have been openly gawking the way he currently was, mouth slack and eyes wide.

The stranger was tall and muscular, his skin the color of the rich dark chocolate Stiles definitely  _didn’t_ hide in his sock and underwear drawer so Scott wouldn't steal it. His head was shined and bald, his eyes narrowed but sharp with a both intelligence and obvious sobriety. 

Then it hit him, like a tonne of bricks.

Number 3, Canadian footballer Vernon Boyd. The league's star defender, and a new transfer to ManU.

And also... a terrifyingly large mountain of a man currently occupying Stiles’ doorway, eyeing him expectantly.

Oh, right. He was supposed to use his words.

Stiles briefly wondered if he should punch this arsehole in the face and tell him to bugger off instead, seeing as it _was_ 4am, but quickly dismissed that as his exhaustion addled-brain attempting to kill him for the sweet release that death would bring. That traitorous organ would not fool him into suicidal tendencies this time. Not again. He’d had enough of its shenanigans the week before, when it had started this whole mess.

He cleared his throat nervously, finally swinging the door open and gesturing to his left after what was surely the longest of awkward pauses. He ignored the twinge of irritation that threatened to spill out into his voice. _Just be patient, Stiles. You’ve already pissed the entire team off once. Try not to do it again._ “Yeah, go ahead. It’s down that hallway on the right. Sorry for the mess.”

He wasn't even a little bit sorry. He hoped Boyd slipped on a dirty sock.

Boyd hummed some form of quiet assent and strode past him. Stiles did his best not to either cower under the couch or find a steak knife to kill this bastard with, and closed the door quietly before sitting taut and anxious back in his computer chair.

Was there some sort of etiquette for this? Was he supposed to offer him a snack or a blow job or something? Did famous people expect shite like that? Because Stiles was nobody’s butler, and he hadn't even brushed his teeth since the previous night. Probably. Maybe the night before.

He nibbled on a carrot stick, waiting.

Then there was more knocking.

“For fuck’s sake...” Stiles ground out, throwing his head back and openly groaning.

“Boyd!” He heard from the hallway, a sweet, feminine voice seeping like honey beneath his doorjamb. Well, pissed-off honey, he supposed. Because that made sense. Anyway, it was a rotten sort of sweetness. She sounded livid, was what he was getting at here. “Boyd! Are you in there? You just took off and I thought you’d fallen down the stairs or some equally stupid shite! Get out here, You need to help Hale get Isaac down to his driver.”

Stiles sighed again, eyeing the still closed washroom door and deigning to stumble back over to where the voice was prodding to be answered. He took a deep breath, but he could feel the anger inside him building to a boiling point. Who did these twats think they were? This was  _his_ apartment.

He swung the door open, balling his fists in his pockets and leaning against the doorway.  “You people do realize someone lives here, right? This isn’t a public square, you can’t use this as your gathering spot. Boyd’s taking a piss, you can wait outside.”

A voluptuous blonde woman quirked a single brow at Stiles, her cherry red lips pursed but somehow still resembling a smirk. “And who exactly are you to tell me what to do?"

“The owner of this bloody flat!" He barked. "Jesus Christ, are you guys drunk or are you legitimately just this _stupid?"_

“Careful, kid. I’m in a decent mood, but you’re toeing a line.” She snapped a piece of gum, glancing at her elegant silver watch and tapping her black high heeled boot against the dingy blue carpet of the hallway.

Stiles’ face contorted into some odd version of disbelief. He was relatively certain he sounded genuinely surprised when he finally managed to quip: "This is you in a good mood?"

She seemed unfazed. “I said decent. Consider yourself lucky.”

It was at that moment that Boyd chose to finally extricate himself from Stiles’ washroom, looking something that could probably be interpreted as irritated. Maybe. Boyd was notorious for always having roughly the same expression, no matter the situation, so Stiles wouldn't put money on it. At least, if the gossip mags were to be believed, which truth be told they rarely should be. “I told Derek where I was going. He should have known.”

She rolled her extravagantly made-up eyes, twirling a blonde lock around a finger and giving Boyd an incredulous look. “You know not to tell him things when he’s otherwise occupied.”

Boyd didn’t dignify her with a response, instead glancing over at Stiles, who was pretty much too confused to be pissed anymore. He offered Stiles a tilt of his head that appeared to constitute some level of gratitude. “Thanks for letting me use your washroom.”

“No problem,” Stiles croaked. Though it most certainly had been a problem, and he was a right liar by all accounts.

Boyd began to walk out the door, then suddenly stopped and turned, his eyes landing on Stiles’ wilted form. “Do you want to come over? I feel like you could use a fresh start with the guys. It’ll be easier to win them over when they’re straight pissed.”

Boyd was somehow both wonderfully Canadian and British at the same time.

That damn feisty blonde interrupted from some spot in the hallway that was no longer in Stiles’ line of vision. But her voice carried like rats with a plague, so she wasn't exactly difficult to hear. “Boyd, are you insane? You can’t just bring him over to Derek’s apartment.”

“Didn’t we just do the same thing to him?"

Okay, so Stiles might actually get along with Boyd.

He didn’t particularly want to go over to Hale’s apartment. But at the same time, there was a morbid sense of curiousity eating away at him like acid on plastic. And by morbid curiousity, he mostly meant that he was itching to be a nasty celebrity blackmailer, and he kind of wanted to get the dirt on the footy player next door. Then plot. Lots of plotting. Like: how exactly could Stiles use Hale's totally secret presumed meth lab to ruin his life and get back his peaceful apartment building? Because it’s hard to be the top player on the server when you can’t focus long enough to walk through a city, let alone kill a boss.

There was red yarn in his closet that was itching to be used.  _  
_

Plotting had always been his forte. 

Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to get any sleep at this point.

“Okay. I guess,” He murmured, after another extended silence. Stiles pocketed his keys before following Boyd and the pouting blonde out towards 24A, his hands again shoved in the deep pockets of his baggy trousers. His stained white shirt clung haphazardly to his chest, the collar sticky with some sort of fruit juice or another, and he idly wondered if he should’ve changed.

And then Stiles remembered that he literally gave no fucks whether these gits thought he was hot or a hot mess, and he straightened his back and followed Boyd into Derek Hale’s abode.

Whatever he was expecting...this was not it.

It was sleek but...homey. The same layout as his apartment: a big front room, with shiny new appliances in the kitchen on his right and a large silver plasma mounted to the wall on his left. A long hallway ran off towards what he assumed to be the bedrooms and the loo.

But among the throngs of beautiful, plastic people were signs of someone who...genuinely cared? Behind the red plastic cups and pressed-out blunts were photographs of what appeared to be a happy and healthy family, a group of smiling and stunning men and women who seemed to fit together so well it almost made Stiles’ stomach ache for his own mother.

Almost. He wasn't going down that road tonight. Not here.

“Oooh, who’s this cutie pie, Boyd?” A thin brunette boy immediately screeched, accosting Stiles with light touches and cooing the moment he’d stepped fully into Hale’s apartment. “Is he the grumpy one from next door? He was a right arse last week, but I guess I didn’t get a good look at him, because look at these freckles! So cute!"

“Isaac, get off of..." Boyd looked at him and blinked slowly, suddenly realizing that he didn’t know, nor had he ever asked, Stiles' name.

“Stiles,” he filled in petulantly.

Boyd had the decency to look about as embarrassed as Vernon Boyd was capable of looking. “Stiles. Get off of Stiles, you’re being drunk and clingy. And Finstock is waiting downstairs.”

“I don’t want to go!” Isaac whined, his pink drink sloshing unceremoniously out of his red plastic cup. And though there was a childishness to his protests, Stiles thought he noted something real and sad in the depths of his voice. “Come on, the night is young!” Isaac suddenly grinned, and the melancholy had vanished from his tone, his eyes raking lazily up Stiles’ lanky form. “And there’s so much fun to be had.”

The blonde girl rolled her eyes. Stiles was beginning to note that it was a bad habit of hers. “Stop being a lech," she answered snidely.

Isaac only shrugged, gave Stiles a look that would've made a porn-star blush, and sauntered off towards the open bar. “Whatever, Erica!"

Erica bit down on her gum and made a noise somewhat akin to a hiss. “He’s such a pain in my arse. Boyd, go get Derek. The two of you really are going to have to drag him down to Finstock before he kills himself.” She checked her phone, her lips pursing again. “Or worse...gets caught by the paps. Habitual drinking isn’t as stylish as it once was.”

Boyd harrumphed and wandered off towards the back hallway, Stiles trailing closely behind. He’d be damned if he was going to get caught in some crowd of simpering drunks with Erica, who somewhat resembled the angry Pomeranians Stiles always saw at Scott’s clinic with old Mrs. Wilson.

“Where’s Hale?” Stiles asked, his voice struggling to rise over the noise of the party. It was weird; Stiles was rarely not loud _enough._  “And why do you need him to help you get Isaac downstairs?"

“You’ll see,” Boyd responded ominously, and he took a deep breath before he shoved the door to Derek’s bathroom open aggressively. “Derek! Pull yourself together. We’ve got a drunk kiddo to take care of.”

Stiles was definitely not prepared for what he saw next.

Derek Hale, nude except for a sinfully tight pair of boxer briefs, pressed against a writhing woman with long brunette hair and askance silver glasses, her lips parted and panting. They’d clearly only just managed to avoid the door, looking at Boyd like he was bloody and holding an ax.

Annnnnnddd now Stiles understood why Boyd had wanted to use his toilet.

“Again?” Hale growled, looking caught somewhere between annoyed and exhausted. The lust was fading from his features, and fading fast. He slid his knee out from between the woman’s thighs, and she gave him a hooded gaze of disappointment.

“Fuck,” Hale murmured, and as he snagged his jeans from the bathroom floor, he finally looked up and noticed that one very red Stiles Stilinski was scowling in his general direction and steadfastly ignoring a very obvious Derek-Hale-erection. “You should have told me about Isaac,” Hale barked, shaking his head and resolutely ignoring Stiles with a quiet snarl. He slid past the woman without a second glance, doing up the buckle of his belt as he strode past the three of them and toward the still-thriving party.

He hadn’t even bothered with a shirt. Arrogant twat. Just because you have abs doesn't mean you need to show them off _all the fucking time_.

“I told you through the door,” Boyd answered flatly.

Hale made a face. “I was busy.”

“You were occupied, not deaf. What did you want me to do? Short of kicking down the door, I didn’t bloody well know how to get your attention!"

Hale sighed and pinched his temples, pretending he hadn’t heard Boyd at all. “We can’t send him with Finstock like this. He’ll fight us all the way down, and his father will be livid. No doubt it’ll make it into the papers if the cops are called again."

Stiles glanced between the two of them, decided against his better judgement not to slap them, and threw up his hands. “I’m going to leave. You two were going to manhandle a kid down to a car? I’m not professionally qualified enough to deal with whatever demented shite's going on here.”

The two men snapped their gazes to him, and Stiles nearly fainted with the sheer terror inflicted by the simmering anger in their stares. Hale’s was a bit more obvious, to say the least. “Stay!” They chorused.

“...what?"

Hale ignored him, per usual, turning his head with a growl, but Boyd laid a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, sharing a solemn nod with the man on his other side. “Stiles, I’m going to ask you to do us an enormous favor.”

“...bigger than the bathroom thing? Because I thought I was being pretty reasonable, considering I’ve never really met any of you."

“Bigger than the bathroom thing.”

# ❀

“I don’t have time right now, Scott!"

Scott gave him a pointed look from his position behind Stiles’ plushy chair; the kind of woefully unimpressed expression that only Scott could pull off without seeming ridiculous.

Which, per usual, Stiles steadfastly ignored.

Instead, he focused on the way his nimble fingers were darting expertly along his keyboard. Spells were flying off in every direction, Stiles’ index fingers clicking with all the ferocity he could muster before he would actually snap his wrists.

He had to get the  _perfect_ shot in to beat this guy. He wanted to be the first one on the server to snag him. The expansion had just come out earlier today, and Stiles had already taken down four of the top bosses in the new area. All he needed was this last guy and he’d have a clean sweep, ensuring his status as top player on the server for another solid year.

Well, he pretty much already had it. But this would be the clincher. The cherry on top. The icing on the cake. The feather in the cap.

...it would be great, is what he was getting at.

“Stiles, seriously. Explain this.”

“Explain what? Scott, I’m busy!” His character barely dodged the demon’s talons, the bright red “MISS” text floating off to the left of his screen and fading into a nearby lake of fire. Stiles grit his teeth and clicked even faster, the burning in his muscles more a sign of accomplishment than a cause for concern at this point. He’d long ago accepted the inevitability of carpal tunnel.

“There’s a half-naked footy player in your bed,  _for chrissakes.”_ Stiles could make out Scott’s eyes narrowing even further from the corner of his eye, and he momentarily wondered if Scott could even see anything anymore or if he was just trying to prove a point.

He clicked a long cast spell and paused for the briefest of moments, sending an exasperated glance at his best friend. “That’s just Isaac.”

“I’m well aware of his name, Stiles! He's famous! He plays for ManU!"

Stiles turned back to his monitor, rolling his eyes. “Then I don’t get what you’re asking.”

“For the love of...I’m asking if you fucked some drunk kid, you bloody tit! There are beer cans all over the lobby."

And in that moment, Stiles’ world shattered.

Not because he’d fucked a famous eighteen-year-old, mind you. That was a fact about which Scott was clearly tragically misinformed. He’d either overestimated Stiles skills of seduction, or underestimated Isaac’s, albeit drunken, discretion.

Anyway, what shattered Stiles’ world was far more sinister than any questionable sexual escapades.

He’d only just barely had time to make out a black blur flashing across his screen before it was all over. And long before he could even open his mouth to shout out about a dozen different curses at once, the stranger had swept the rug out from beneath his feet and stolen his kill with a single strategically placed blow to the demon’s neck.

Stiles stared agape at his screen as the golden text flashed across his chat log:  “ **AlphaH has slayed the Great Demon, Hagereth!** "

“I can’t believe this,” he whispered, the tragedy of the situation suddenly dawning on him with sharp clarity.

Scott rubbed his temples, letting a hiss of air through his teeth. “For fuck’s sake. Shite, Stiles. You seriously had sex with him? If he was drunk, he was in no state of mind to consent..."

Stiles whipped around, shoving his chair into his desk with a loud clatter and striding over to the couch to flop over in total defeat. Scott had only narrowly avoided being shoved along with it. “I didn’t fuck Isaac, Scott! But you did just make me lose my capstone kill on the server, you git!” He buried his face in the pillow, a vaguely inhuman shriek emanating from deep within its fluff.

“Who didn’t fuck me?” A sleepy voice mumbled from the hallway, and Stiles slowly lifted his head just enough to peek over the center cushion.

Scott flushed slightly, but turned around to glare at Stiles instead of admitting his obvious role as 'resident suspicious twat.’ Isaac picked haphazardly at his right ear, twisting a hoop earring that dangled from its lobe. He seemed tired. “Would you care to enlighten me as to where I am?"

Stiles rested his chin on the top of the cushion, sighing and puffing out his cheeks. He twisted his thumb towards himself, still feeling a dull ache in his hand from a morning of grinding mobs. “I’m Stiles. I’m H...Derek’s neighbor. You were too drunk to go home, so Boyd asked if you could stay here until you sobered up.”

Isaac sighed quietly, and Scott pinned Stiles with a look that said  _you could have told me this five minutes ago._

Isaac blinked back something dangerously close to tears, and Stiles tried desperately hard to pretend he hadn't noticed. Then Isaac cleared his throat, sounding like he was speaking through a mouth full of cotton. Which, to him, it probably felt like he was. “Well, thank you. I’m sorry to have put that on you. But I appreciate that you let me stay. The paps..."

“...are arseholes. Trust me, I really do understand,” Stiles finished, giving him a gentle smile. He genuinely liked Isaac. Something about him was comfortable, in a little brother sort of way. An uncomfortably attractive little brother, but still. Plus, he wasn’t a colossal wanker like about half of his teammates. And half was being generous, to be sure.

“Yeah.” Isaac managed a soft smile in response, then glanced awkwardly between the two of them and the door. “Should I...?"

Stiles inclined his head in the direction of his bathroom. No use in Isaac being awkward now, especially when Stiles had seen more of him than he’d ever really intended to see. Isaac wasn’t exactly someone who was easy to wrangle, and if drunk Isaac wanted to peel off his shirt and trousers, he damn well did both. At some point last night Stiles  _had_ finally understood why Boyd would have needed Hale to get him down to the car. "You’re free to take a shower, yeah? I’ll get you some clothes to borrow. There’s no use going out there looking like you just crawled out of the gutter.”

Isaac winced, his lips twisting into a frown as he evaluated the sad state of his crumpled t-shirt and sinfully tight jeans “That bad?"

Stiles nodded solemnly. “That bad. Towels are in the loo. Go on, I’ll grab you some clean trousers and a t-shirt.”

Isaac ducked into the bathroom, and Scott shook his head before sitting at the granite bar separating Stiles’ kitchen from his living room. He looked up at Stiles with eyes that very much oozed an amused sort of displeasure, the emotion that basically defined their friendship. “Do you have to be so difficult all the time?"

Stiles suddenly remembered the reason for his bad mood, and scowled. “I do. Especially if you’re going to wreck my chance at a server first, Scott!"

“Christ, Stiles, calm down. It’s just a bloody game.”

Stiles stood abruptly, flipping off Scott and shuffling into the kitchen to throw on some tea. “You did not just say that. I’m pretending you did not just say that for the sake of this friendship.”

“You’re a drama queen,” Scott put in unhelpfully, as Stiles aggressively clicked the button on his kettle.

But they were both grinning anyway.

Scott didn’t have to tell Stiles that he was one for theatrics. Stiles already knew that about himself. But that was part of what made their friendship work. Half of their banter was useless filler, and the other half haphazard insults, but it was friendly and comfortable and that was what mattered. 

He tossed a few dried leaves into the top of his tea pot, then stared impatiently at the kettle. “You’re hopeless, Scott. But unlike you, you don’t hear me whining about it all the time.”

Scott gave him the finger, drawing pictures with the condensation on Stiles’ countertop-slash-bar.

The damned kettle finally began to squeal, and Stiles eventually poured the steeped tea into three ceramic mugs, tossing out a bowl of sugar with a spoon and a couple creamers he’d stolen from the cafe next to the apartment building. He stared proudly at his handiwork, then shoved a cup in Scott’s general direction. “Drink your delicious and steaming hot beverage that I just prepared for you, you tit. Seeing as I’m a kind soul and you’re a bitter old man.”

Scott wrapped his hand around the cup, inhaling before lifting it tentatively to his lips. He gave Stiles a comic eyebrow waggle. “How do I know you didn’t poison this?"

“Because I have no experience disposing of bodies, Scott. Especially giant, bulky men like you. I think you’re safe.” Stiles stirred in a sugar and creamer, slipping around the counter and sitting next to the unworthy peasant he deigned to give the title of 'Stiles Stilinski’s best friend.’ “So how’s Allison? Still tragically and unnecessarily concerned about secondary sex characteristics?"

“Thankfully, no. Though you probably shouldn’t bring it up again.” At the mere mention of Allison’s name, Scott compulsively checked his phone, seemingly mildly disappointed that nothing was there. “She thought maybe you’d want to go to dinner with us next weekend? Her parents have tickets to some Gala for the LPO.”

Stiles sipped thoughtfully at his tea, quirking a brow. “I’m waiting for the catch.”

Scott bit his lip. “Well...it’s sort of a two person thing.”

“No.”

“Oh come on, Stiles! They just thought it would be a nice opportunity to meet you, seeing as you probably see Allison more than they do.”

Stiles had only just thought up a wonderfully sarcastic way to tell Scott to fuck himself with his set of 'date tickets’ when he heard the water in his bathroom switch off and a shower curtain shoved haphazardly aside. “Shite, Isaac needs clothes. One second, I’ll tell you 'no’ in sixteen different ways in a minute.”

He jumped up from his bar stool and darted into the hallway. Clothes. Clothes. His room? No, his laundry hamper, which was in the closet. Since he hadn't bothered to fold his clean laundry yet. Don’t ask why. He couldn’t remember anymore. He rummaged through it, tossing several garments aside and possibly into another dimension when he finally found a pair of stretchy blue trousers and a white t-shirt that seemed halfway decent.

“Isaac?”He called, knocking tentatively on the bathroom door. “I’m going to leave the clothes outside the door. Feel free to change.”

“Thanks!” He heard through the door, muffled by wood and what sounded like a mouthful of washcloth. What the hell was he doing in there?

“Try not to eat all my linens!” He called over his shoulder, and he was pretty sure he heard Isaac choke with something that sounded like teary laughter.

“If you’re done flirting with the nude footy player in your bathroom, care to give me an answer on those tickets?” Scott said the moment Stiles had set foot back in his line of eagle-eyed sight.

“I’ve already said no, Scott. There’s no way I’m going through the hassle of getting a date for some gala.” He kicked at his ivory carpet petulantly, his eyes glued to the floor and arms crossed. Scott cleared his throat impatiently, and Stiles wandered aimlessly into his kitchen, staring mournfully into his empty fridge. He'd already eaten all his carrots, even though he'd only bought them a couple days ago.

Scott coughed pointedly. “I still haven’t received a  _proper_ answer.”

“Don’t be an arse. I know you can hear me just fine,” he directed angrily towards the mustard.

“Fine, then, we’ll do this your way.”

That sounded suspiciously like a threat.

The door to the loo clicked open, and suddenly Scott was standing, practically _teleporting_ , over to the hallway and patting a damp Isaac on the t-shirt clad shoulder. Isaac’s dirty clothes were folded neatly and shoved up beneath his armpit.

Scott practically glowed. “Isaac, my friend, I’ve thought of the perfect way for you to repay Stiles’ kindness.”

Isaac’s blue, puffy eyes lit up. It was like this had been precisely the thing he’d been looking for his entire life, which was both mildly terrifying and flattering at the same time.

Stiles, in turn, debated shoving his head into the vegetable drawer. Straight-up ostrich style. The shame. So much shame. He needed his best-mate to get him a date to a gala. He was a grown-ass man and he couldn’t even pull that off by himself.

Why was this his life? Thanks to Scott's meddling, two minutes into the gala Stiles was pretty sure he’d feel like the pathetic old widower that used to live at the end of his street in Beacon Hills. Scrounging up dates with anybody dumb enough to pity him and his tragic lack of a love life, sponging off the young and good-looking because he was wrinkled and creepy.

Well, maybe not wrinkled.

A case could probably be made for creepy, if he was being honest.

By the time Stiles decided not to thrust his noggin in the metaphorical sand of his appliances, Scott and Isaac were already nodding furiously about whatever doom they’d decided to bestow upon him. Agreeable twats. He sighed and walked over to lean on the bar beside the sink, nudging Isaac’s lukewarm cup of tea towards him with his head hung in defeat.

“Come on. If you’re done plotting, drink your tea. Get yourself fully rested before dealing with the paps. Did you leave anything next door?"

Isaac thought for a moment, the bit his lip. “Now that you mention it, I think I left my phone in Derek’s freezer.”

Stiles gave him a look.

“Don’t ask," Isaac admitted sheepishly. "I was using it to make a point."

He drained the remainder of his tea and set his cup in the sink. “I’ll go get it while you get your stuff together here. You can use my house phone to call your driver.”

Stiles threw on a pair of white, fluffy slippers from the shoebox beside his door and shuffled out into the hallway, realizing too late that he’d just volunteered to walk straight into the dragon’s den.

He glanced around the second-floor lobby, his mind taking inventory of various escape routes. The only two apartments on this side were his and Hale’s. Fleeing to his apartment would be too obvious; so he’d have to take the steep set of walnut stairs that haunted his dreams. And he’d have to kick off his slippers, or he was almost certain to slide down the entire length of the damn things.

Appropriately terrified, he knocked tentatively on the door.

It took a solid minute for a panicked looking Derek Hale to crack it open. His expression was caught halfway between exasperation and 'consider my pants peed' terror. He donned only a pair of loose green-plaid pyjama pants, his hair a mess of sideways black tufts pointing in all directions. It took everything Stiles had not to bend down and lick the contours of what he could only describe as Hale's flawlessly sculpted abs.

Thankfully, the knowledge that Hale was a total arsehole helped to impart upon Stiles the wisdom not to do anything stupid.

“What do you want?” Hale finally sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Isaac left his phone in your freezer. I came over to get it for him.” Stiles began pushing his way in through the door, but Hale placed his fingers squarely in the center of his chest, forcing him back out into the hallway.

“I’ll get it,” he muttered gruffly, closing the door behind him.

The door eventually squeaked open again, a pink Motorola Razr with a beaded charm peeking out from just beyond the doorframe.

“This is Isaac’s phone?” Stiles asked incredulously.

Hale glowered at him. “Yes, can you go now?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Fine, sourpuss. Go back to whatever it is you famous people do with your spare time. Stare in the mirror and count your money and all that jazz.”

Hale didn’t even bother to respond. He just grunted, shut his apartment door with a hard 'click’, and stomped off to whatever wonderfully interesting task he’d been engrossed in before Stiles had oh-so-rudely interrupted him.

“Knob.” He murmured, turning the handle to his own abode.

He took one final glance at the dark wood of Hale’s door before he shook his head and tucked Isaac’s pink phone beneath his armpit, hissing at the touch of the cold metal on his skin.

Whatever Derek Hale was hiding, he didn’t care.

Not one little bit.

Which is exactly why he’d be listening through his wall later. 


	3. Merlot

⚽

**♪ _Summer Wine ~_ Lana del Rey and Barrie James O'Neill ♪**

⚽

* * *

 “Scott!”

Silence. Shuffling. Incoherent mumbling and a bump, followed closely by a loud exclamation that Stiles couldn’t quite make out.

He tried again, his voice shrill and demanding. _“Scottttt!”_  

“Shut up, Stiles! I need a minute,” Scott called sharply from his decidedly stationary spot in Stiles’ bathroom.

Stiles huffed and flopped over onto his old squeaky mattress, pulling helplessly at his uncooperative tufts of too-long brown hair and staring forlornly out his open bedroom door. No matter how much Scott fiddled with his hair, Allison was going to think he was gorgeous. That was a goddamn statement of fact, and Stiles didn't understand the need to individually adjust _every strand_. “Hurry up! I need your expert gelling skills or I’m going to look like a right idiot.” 

“You already look like an idiot!” 

Stiles glared fruitlessly in his best friend’s general direction, sighing quietly before examining his finger-fulls of soft, wavy locks. “Git,” he said bitterly, hopefully loud enough for Scott to hear. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, twisting his hair into perfect pin-curls before letting it fall haphazardly back against his quilt.

Stiles had never really had his hair this long…at least, not since Mom had died.  

When she’d passed away, he hadn’t wanted a new hairdresser to cut his hair. He knew they’d never get it right, not the way she had. So he’d just buzzed it off at home, tossing the handfuls of itchy brown curls into his wastebasket and crying the whole way through like a bloody idiot. He'd made sure his tears were careful and quiet so his father wouldn't notice, sobbing into the flannel of his mother's pillowcase while his father was buried in his third glass of whisky and a mountain of paperwork from his tiny downtown office.

But he’d let it go long, for the first time in years, and he found that he sort of liked the gentle, warm ache that nestled itself deep in his stomach whenever he saw the uncooperative puffs that reminded him so dearly of his mother.

He sighed again and let his weight sink deeper into the plush warmth of his favorite flannel sheets, his fingers moving to pick absentmindedly at his tight, tailored black suit. His dad had bought it ages ago, along with everything else in this spacious apartment he was lucky enough to call home, and Stiles made a mental note to invite his dad over next week, even if it was just for a few minutes.

He didn’t want to make the same mistake he’d made with Mom. Stiles wanted to make sure his father knew just how much he loved him.

Scott did eventually decide to grace Stiles with his presence, and it didn’t take him long to quiff and primp his best friend to perfection. Before Stiles could manage yet another quip they were in Scott’s car, racing off towards the Gala.

 “Where were they supposed to meet us?” Stiles piped in breathlessly an hour later, scurrying along after his best mate and struggling to keep up with Scott’s quick and determined stride. The car had already been dropped off at the valet, a young girl in a gray vest plucking the keys to Scott's beaten up old station wagon from his hand with a distasteful curl of her lip.

And now Scott was a man on a mission, his long legs striding quickly and determinedly through the dense crowd. Frankly, Stiles had no such mission, and was simply a man trying not to have an asthma attack in the middle of the lobby.

Regardless, Scott didn’t really seem to care very much about the decidedly appalling state of his Stiles’ lungs.

Whether Stiles was having trouble breathing because of the nerves or the excessive exercise was open to interpretation.

“We’re meeting them at our seats,” Scott finally elaborated, coming to an abrupt halt several yards from the finely decorated table where Allison’s parents sat, surrounded by elegantly prepared food and silverware worth more than Stiles’ entire wardrobe. Scott quickly sidled behind a pillar, pulling Stiles, who was openly staring at this point, with him.

Scott sighed and fixed his tie, gnawing on the inside his cheek. “And I definitely don’t want to see them without Allison here.”

“Then why didn’t we just wait near the door?” Stiles asked. Reasonably, he might add.

Scott held a single finger to his lips, gesturing slyly towards the attractive couple coyly feeding each other different absurdly expensive fruits. They had the sharp grace of an ice sculpture, emitting an air of ‘cold and dangerous’ that sent chills right down Stiles' spine. “I’m trying to hear what they think of me," Scott whispered conspiratorially. 

Stiles crossed his arms, giving Scott a look that clearly said: _You bloody dragged me here early for this?_   “I’d be happy to tell you what _I_ think of you.”

“Be quiet!”

Stiles forced a puff of displeased air through his lips, pretending to be particularly fascinated by his dingy silver watch while Scott’s face continued to fall further and further into utter despair with every passing moment.

“Scott?”

The two of them suddenly snapped to attention, Scott’s eyes instantly drawn to a flawlessly made-up Allison, who was coquettishly watching them from a few feet away. Her long fingers were wrapped around a leather clutch, her hair curled into a shiny up do with simple, gold barrettes.  Her dress, a sleek, navy floor-length gown, tapered into an elegant train behind her.

But Stiles was a little too distracted to notice any of that.

“Stiles,” a disgustingly gorgeous Isaac Lahey acknowledged from beside her. It wasn’t a question.

And despite the sinful way Isaac’s white collared shirt was painted up against his taut muscles, despite the daring tightness of his tailored gray slacks and the charcoal gray jacket elegantly draped smoothly over his arm, it wasn’t how gorgeous Stiles’ date was that sent him into a self-destructive tailspin of stuttering and cheeks flushed with abrupt and crippling anxiety.

No, what did that was the murderous glare from one Derek Hale, whose hand was clasped protectively over Isaac’s left shoulder, his eyes smoldering with the kind of anger usually reserved for tiger mothers guarding their cubs.

Stiles legitimately feared for his life.

“Hi,” Stiles managed, standing utterly still as Scott swept past him and promptly proceeded to dote on Allison.

_Traitor._

Stiles scratched his head, squirming beneath both the sudden sharp stares of Allison’s ice-parents and Derek’s obvious homicidal tendencies. “Um…why is Hale here?” He tried quietly.

Isaac tensed very subtly, giving Stiles a carefully placed grin. “I saw him in the lobby, he just thought he’d say ‘hi’ before we sat down.”

Stiles was relatively certain that murder-eyes didn’t strictly qualify as a polite greeting, but he remained silent.

Isaac carefully brushed Derek’s hand away, the tension of his gestures not quite matching his expertly placed expression of platonic affection. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow, okay? Don’t worry about me, we can talk later.”

“Be careful,” Hale growled softly, then spun on his heels and stalked away.

Stiles approached cautiously, gently taking Isaac’s jacket and giving him a tentative smile.  He prudently avoided looking in the direction Hale had stomped away in, lest he literally test the colloquialism ‘if looks could kill.’

Stiles coughed discreetly into his free hand, eyes caught somewhere halfway between Isaac and the floor. “Did I really screw up already? This may be a record, even for me.”

“You’re fine. He’s just…protective. He's older, he sort of thinks of me like a little brother, yeah? He was a little suspicious about you taking me to a Gala after I spent the night at your apartment. I tried to explain, but…” Isaac bit his lip and shrugged, then gave another subtle smile, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Why don’t we sit down? You guys were probably waiting awhile.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.” Stiles finally answered, gently leading Isaac to his seat.

As it turned out, _no_ , it was, in fact, not fine. But Stiles wasn’t exactly in a position to complain.

The foursome had introduced themselves, only to be greeted with expertly pointed insults about everyone except for Isaac, who Allison’s father seemed to merely pin with sideways glances and suspicious clicks of his tongue.

To her credit, Allison coolly brushed aside any commentary about her relationship with Scott, who was too busy looking like he was on the receiving end of the world’s most brutal beating to defend himself properly. Stiles would be damned if he actually cared about whatever insults they were throwing his way. He was too busy making narrowed eye contact with Hale’s tense shoulder-blades from across the room to care.

Stiles really did do his best to engage with them when he wasn’t busy engaging in eye combat with Hale’s appendages, but most of his so-called wit was lost in the icicle jungle of Mr. and Mrs. Argent’s steadily more disinterested replies. He eventually gave up and draped his arm around Isaac’s chair, murmuring an apology softly in his ear and receiving a warm smile in return that made him feel just a little bit better.

“So, Scott, where is it you live again?” Chris Argent finally asked, breaking a thirty second silence of truly momentously uncomfortable proportions, his tone ripe with condescension and hostility. The waitress carefully swept in, collecting the plates and forks but leaving the wine and water for dessert. Stiles cautiously watched as Isaac downed his third glass of merlot.

Scott immediately snapped to attention at Mr. Argent's question, looking terrified. “Umm, right outside of Old Trafford, sir.”

“Old Trafford,” he drawled, giving Scott a lazy smile that made them all uneasy. “Interesting.”

“Mom, Dad, can Scott and I talk to you for a minute?” Allison finally ground out, slamming her clutch on the recently cleared table and standing so forcefully she sent her chair skittering about a foot behind her. Her Chiclet white teeth were clenched with frustration, fire dancing in her eyes in the way that made Stiles wonder how on Earth he’d survived when he was her tactless neighbor.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Argent answered smoothly, elegantly rising and striding off towards a silent corridor on the side of the ballroom. The others followed suit, Scott turning and offering Stiles and apologetic and apocalyptic look filled to the brim with miserable meaning.

Isaac and Stiles managed about two minutes of pleasant conversation, Stiles gravitating steadily closer to try and discourage Isaac from drinking any more wine, before someone decided that the disappearance of half the table was his cue to come over.

Because, you know, as soon as one alpha twat leaves the table, it is simply _science_ that the vacancy must be filled.

“Look, Stilinski,” were the first words that Stiles heard, from about halfway across the ballroom, in a guttural voice that made peeing his pants seem like a viable escape plan. Stiles withdrew his arm from the chair and eyed Isaac, who was already laying his head in his hands, his fingers gripping his hair while he groaned. Stiles could smell the alcohol on his breath, even from his seat.

Hale finally skidded to a stop in front of Stiles’ chair and reached down, his fingers tangling themselves in Stiles’ collar as he yanked him to his feet. Isaac cried out but Hale held out his free hand, lowering his face to meet Stiles’ widened eyes. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, but I swear to God, if you hurt him…”

“You’ll what? Huff and puff and blow our jointly occupied house down?” Stiles retorted, in the manliest of voices, rolling his eyes. Bloody hell, he was a right idiot, but he could never stop that mouth of his, even when there was a very real possibility he might be the victim of an extremely public homicide. “Please, enlighten me as to how this is any of your business.”

Hale pulled him so close he could smell the alcohol on his breath, too. “Isaac is like a little brother to me, and I _swear_ , Stilinski…”

“Put me down!” He hissed impatiently, squirming until Hale finally loosened his grip enough that he could pull himself free to brush the humiliation and wrinkles from his suit. He could feel the stares of the ballroom focusing in on the commotion, phones coming out of purses and whispers increasing to a near deafening crescendo. “We’re just friends, dude. Something that you’d obviously know nothing about, seeing as you are the world’s most colossal _git_.”

Hale went to reply, but Isaac slowly rose to his feet, shaking his head, his eyes looking like they were full of unexpressed tears. He curled his lip, snatching his jacket from the back of his chair. “This is what I’m talking about, Derek. You can’t act like this; not when…not when…I’ve told you how he always used to…”

Isaac backed up, his face buckling beneath a flood of emotion that was impossible to decipher.

Hale’s gaze went soft. “Isaac…”

“I’m leaving.”

Derek froze. “Isaac!”

Stiles snarled and wrapped his fingers tightly around the glass behind him, his brain a mess of chemicals and anger and in that state it always was when he made the shittiest choices and ruined everything all at once. The state when his thoughts raced so quickly that his actions became collateral damage, a brain swimming in over-stimulation and hormones, under-regulated and over-expressive.

And it was in the state, as Hale was frantically turning on his heels to follow Isaac, that Stiles stood on his tiptoes, reached up with his free hand to grab Hale’s collar…

And dumped an entire goblet of wine over his head.

# ❀

“Danny my darling, my all-powerful, handsome, raid leader of love!”

“Stiles, don’t make me regret letting you back on here.”

Stiles adjusted his microphone so Danny wouldn’t hear him snort, ignoring the sixth chime of the Zelda theme music to come from his phone in the past ten minutes. He was _busy_ , he didn’t have time to read whatever Scott was so keen to tell him about Allison’s eyes, or Allison’s hands, or Allison’s _anything_.

Anyway, he’d ignore his phone and ignore his urge to laugh and let Danny think he was intimidating, just this once. Maybe if he appealed to his ego, Danny wouldn’t kick Stiles off TeamSpeak so readily next time.

He brought Martha back towards his lips, his expression tense with the mock stiffness and determination of a proper soldier. “Understood,” Stiles intoned, his free hand holding a haphazard salute that no one could even see, but which felt necessary to the character, nonetheless. Then his resolve faltered, and he promptly dissolved into unrestrained giggles.

So much for losing gracefully.

Stiles heard a couple of girlish ‘tsks’, and saw the black “bell” icon appear over the svelte red-headed avatar beside his: a petite Druid, clothed in long, elegant green robes and a silver circlet with an emerald in the center.

 “Stiles, watch your tongue for once,” Lydia told him tersely, though he could hear just a hint of resigned amusement edging into her voice. Her character, however, always looked perpetually unimpressed, its lips drawn into a tight, pouty red line. “If he kicks you off again, we lose the only tank online this week. You know damn well we can’t do the Citadel without being on TeamSpeak, it’s too complicated. We’re already down a DPS.”

He ignored any steadfast reasoning in Lydia’s little speech, zeroing in on any unintentional praise like the heat-seeking-boy-missile he was. “By ‘only’ you mean ‘best’, yeah?”

Lydia groaned in the most elegant of ways. She was a goddess among men, Stiles was sure of it. “Stiles, seriously. Be quiet for once. You’ve only been back on for five minutes and I already want to strangle you with my new scarf.”

Stiles crossed his arms, glaring half-heartedly at Lydia’s avatar, even though he knew damn well she couldn’t see him. To its credit, his avatar managed to somehow portray Stiles’ perpetual face of eccentric mischievousness, and was glancing suspiciously around the public square where his two closest allies had gathered with him outside the auction house.

Danny cleared his throat, persistently ignoring Stiles’ antics with practiced ease. “Lydia’s right, we do need another DPS. I’ll look into it for the Citadel; I’ve got a friend of a friend who may be willing to join the guild if he has the time…” He heard papers shuffling, then the muffled voice of who he assumed was Danny's roommate handing him something with a throaty chuckle. Danny paused, trying hard to stifle a laugh. “Actually, before we continue discussing the organization of our dungeon this weekend, I do have one question, Stilinski.”

Stiles brightened. Finally, a chance to _talk_. “What is it?”

Danny cleared his throat. “Is there any particular reason you’re on the cover of the Daily Mail?”

The color bled from Stiles’ face, and his fingers clutched helplessly at the edge of his desk. He nearly knocked his bowl of carrots onto the floor in his haste to grab something for support. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you properly. You just asked why I, Stiles Stilinski, a single bachelor of no particular talent or prestige, am on the cover of the Daily Mail?”

Danny’s voice was practically gloating. “I thought I said it pretty clearly. Was I unclear, Lydia?”

He could hear the smirk in Lydia’s voice, but her avatar’s face was still infuriatingly smooth and passive. “No, it was pretty clear from where I'm standing.”

Stiles tried desperately to push down the memory of last night, his fingers twitching when he recalled the look of doom in Hale’s eyes as he’d snarled violently, doused in wine, and then took off after Isaac all the same.

“…Am I, by any chance, involved in a staring contest with one merlot-soaked Derek Hale in this photograph?” Stiles managed, tangling his fingers up in the wire of his headphones to occupy their twitching.

“That would be correct.”

He let his head droop, his throat stinging with the warm, familiar feeling of trouble. “I have one more question,” Stiles said quietly, his fingers already moving to massage where his temples threatened to throb.

There was a moment of amused silence—these bastards were enjoying this, he could tell. Stiles could hear the wry delight in their voices growing with every disheartened question from Stiles’ end. “And what would that be?” Danny finally asked, disgustingly smug.

Stiles swallowed, biting his lip. “…how long ago was your paper delivered? Or, you know, how long do I have left to live?”

“ _STILINSKI!_ ”

Stiles let out a decidedly unmanly shriek, sending about half of his belongings, including his headset, clattering onto the floor as he stood abruptly at the sound of Hale’s positively homicidal boom. He skittered over to the door, ear pressed against the cool wood, his voice rising sharply in panic. “Oh my God, guys, save me! He’s seen it. Hale’s seen the picture. I am so royally fucked. Is my door locked? It’s not! Why won’t it lock? Lydia, call the police! Call the Queen! I’m about to be murdered!” He was talking loud and fast, his voice hopefully carrying enough to be picked up on his abruptly discarded microphone.

At least his death would be recorded. Stiles wanted to be remembered.

“Stiles Stilinski, you colossal _twat_ , if you don’t come out here right now I’m coming in!” He heard, all snarls and anger from outside his door.

Stiles swallowed again, carefully opening the door a couple of tentative centimeters. He refused to meet Hale’s eyes, digging his socked toes into the carpet, his tone meek. “Um, I’d really rather just stay in here, actually. Terribly sorry about that. I’m sure you understand, but if you could just refrain from actually killing me that would be excellent.”

Hale’s fists were clenched and trembling, a copy of the Daily Mail crumpled in his right hand. The way his green eyes were flashing reminded Stiles of Christmas lights. You know, if Christmas were terrifying and uncomfortably sexy. “You have ten seconds to get out here before I kick your door in,” Hale barked, his jaw set.

“See, that’s pretty illegal, so I wouldn’t recommend…”

“Stiles?”

Stiles thought he might actually die of relief, instead of at the hands of an enraged footy player. He turned to his side, gratefully examining a head full of dark, wavy locks that was looking questioningly at him from the stairwell. And for the first time in his arguably short life, Stiles thought Scott McCall may actually be an angel. “Scott! My best friend and a competent witness totally capable of testifying in a murder trial! How are you this fine day?”

Hale growled. Because that’s all Hale ever did. “I’m not done talking to you. I expect to see you after practice tonight, so we can fix this…thing.”

Stiles pasted on an obviously fake smile, fingers still curled protectively around the door handle so he could shut it at a moment’s notice. “Yes, I look forward to it, obviously.”

Derek gave him one final glare and then stalked away, a heavy-looking black duffle bag slung over his shoulder, muttering things like ‘insufferable’ and ‘idiot’ the entire way down the stairs. Stiles tried really hard not to stare at Hale’s ass, he truly did, but he failed predictably. When he’d finally torn his eyes away from millions of Pounds worth of perfectly rounded backside, Scott gave Stiles a meaningful look.

“You’re going to have to explain how you’ve already pissed him off again, but before you do anything, I really need to wee.”

Stiles sighed and opened the door all the way, gesturing for his best friend to come in.

While Scott peed, Stiles told Lydia and Danny he’d be back later, pending a potential death at the hands of England’s football sweetheart. They laughed and told him to at least get an autograph out of it.  With a final utterance of ‘you’re both prats’ Stiles shut down his computer, threw the pile of floor-bound items back onto his desk, and flung himself with full-hearted anguish at his red, beat-down couch.

Scott appeared again suddenly, looming above Stiles’ crumpled form. “Stiles, stand up.”

Stiles buried himself beneath a mountain of questionably clean couch pillows, shaking his head aggressively and sending at least two of the dingy cushions tumbling to the floor. “Nope. I’m not going anywhere. I need to mourn my life as it once was.”

Scott’s eyes hardened, and he took the tone he always did when he was reminding Stiles that Stiles was, in fact, an adult, despite his best efforts not to be. “You’re going to go apologize. Now.”

Stiles sat up abruptly, complete shock twisting his features, the remainder of his discolored pillows flying everywhere behind him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Scott held up his cell phone, his hand swaying side to side in a taunting dance, a single brow raised in what Stiles assumed was a challenge. “Allison just texted me about what happened, and I have about half a dozen frantic messages from Isaac asking what he should do about the press. Did you really think I wasn’t going to find out? I finally understand that guilty look you wore all the way home last night.”

“It’s not my fault that Hale’s an arse!” Stiles protested, his lips pursed and shoulders slumped.

Scott gave him a pointed look. “But it is your fault that you reacted like an _infant._ Your father’s probably going to go mad when they figure out your name and relation. Not to mention poor Isaac, who is completely panicking down at practice. There are reporters everywhere, and they seem to think he knows what happened. He barely got onto the field without being physically assaulted.”

Stiles’ face fell as he realized with abrupt guilt that when he’d ignored his phone going crazy for the past half an hour, he'd been ignoring a petrified Isaac, not a love-struck Scott. “Why are they hounding him? He wasn’t even involved.”

Scott gave him another glare that he read as _you fucking tit are you stupid or what?_   “They’re the press. They don’t care that he’s an innocent party or a kid. All they care about is the story, which wouldn’t be a problem if you’d refrained from _soaking your famous neighbor in wine._ Now pull on a half decent pair of trousers, run a comb through that untamed poof you dare call a hairstyle, and let’s go.”

Stiles looked up at Scott with wide, innocent hazel eyes. The stare that always stopped Scott cold, ever since they were just kids—the one that said: _Scott, I’m scared._ “Scott…”

Scott softened for just a moment, a warm hand resting tentatively on Stiles' shoulder. “What is it Stiles?”

Stiles shook it away, replacing his expression with one of comfortable spite.

“He deserved it.”

He probably should’ve known better than to taunt Scott at this point, and he fought off a cascade of angry pillow smacks from his best mate all the way to his room, where he finally deigned to put on what Scott would deem “appropriate clothing” and combed the “unruly nest he dared call hair.”

Stiles wasn’t quite sure when the world had decided that it was a good idea to torture him this way, but he did know one thing with overwhelming certainty.

With a grand sigh he took out his phone, guilty thumbed past half a dozen messages from Isaac, and jabbed in his father’s number, clutching the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulled on a red cable knit sweater.

If there was anyone who could help Stiles now, it was Crown Prosecutor Stilinski.


	4. Smile

⚽

**♪ _Secrets ~_ Mary Lambert ♪**

⚽

* * *

Stiles Stilinski was nobody’s bitch.

Yeah, alright, it was one thing to say that, but Stiles planned to make sure that _git_ Derek Hale knew it too. He’d say sorry to Isaac earnestly, with puppy dog eyes and everything, then offer Hale one of those off the cuff, chilly apologies that more said “you’re overreacting and this is a formality” than any true incarnation of “I’m sorry.”

And then Hale could tell his ridiculously obsessed fans and the media at large that everything was well and _finished_ , and Stiles could have his life of blissful solitude back.

Ideally he’d have just apologized to Isaac over tea or supper and ignored Hale entirely, but here Scott was, dragging Stiles along by his forearm, pushing forcefully through the paparazzi while they tried to get Stiles’ attention with brash words, grasping hands and bright flashes. Stiles did his best to smile for the cameras, but he was relatively certain he just looked constipated and vaguely alarmed.

“Scott, they’re messing up my sweater,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Oh, they’re messing up your sweater? How? Did they pour wine on it?”

“Git,” Stiles mumbled sourly.

Scott smiled fondly, then tugged harder on his arm, leading him past a bored set of guards and through the final set of double doors to the arena. Suddenly, one hallway and a few more mild complaints later, they were plunged into a sea of freshly cut grass and distressingly fit male bodies. Stiles heard a quiet noise of appreciation fall unintentionally from of Scott’s lips, and he realized belatedly that Scott had been a rabid fan since childhood, too.

“How did we get past the guards?” Stiles asked quietly, trying desperately hard not to look as utterly star-struck as he was sure both he and Scott felt.

“I called,” Scott answered simply, his eyes scanning the field, soaking in the vibrant colors and pungent scent of grass and sweat. “Isaac told them to let you in. Your face is out there now, Stiles, don’t forget that.”

They heard the sharp, shrill sound of a whistle cutting through the crisp October air, and Stiles’ entire body filled with fresh ice.

Suddenly Stiles’ sweater wasn’t quite warm enough anymore.

“Five minutes!” A resolutely terrifying man in a red cap boomed, and the players amassed into a giant, writhing mob on the benches, Gatorade sloshing out of bottles and onto practice gear. Two slender figures broke away, heading towards the edge of the pitch, Hale balancing a ball on his hip, Isaac pulling desperate gulps of red Gatorade down his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every gulp.

“Scott, he’s going to kill me, and it’s going to be your fault, you stupid tit,” Stiles whispered harshly out the side of his mouth.

“Don’t be a drama queen,” Scott answered boredly, clapping Stiles reassuringly on the back. Scott shifted his eyes to the two approaching figures, offering a genial grin. “Gentlemen, I believe Stiles here has something to say to the two of you.”

Derek Hale and Isaac Lahey exuded something different than usual when they were coming off the pitch. Gone was the coiled tension that marked their posture at home, replaced with a tired, ragged ease that tugged down on their limbs and up on their lips. Stiles knew the feeling well, missed the feeling, too. Even Hale; grumpy, perpetually angry Derek Hale, seemed to be fighting his own happy expression, reminding himself to frown.

“Um,” Stiles began eloquently, scratching the back of his head, eyes looking anywhere but forward. “Isaac, I’m really sorry I’ve got all the paps wound up. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble, I’m hoping me showing up here will kill the story off. I know you’ve been getting shite, I really am truly sorry.”

Stiles risked glancing up, and Isaac grinned, giving him a sweaty, one-armed hug. “It’s alright, yeah? Apology accepted, mate.”

Isaac’s arm was still slung around his shoulders when Stiles turned to Hale, trying desperately hard not to chew off his own lip. “H—Derek, I’m, uh…sorry I dumped wine on you. And ruined your exorbitantly expensive suit. And landed you on the front of the Daily Mail. And was just an all-around arse, really.”

There was a beat of silence, and Stiles felt his heart drop into his stomach, sure he was going to be quite suddenly and violently ill. He thought, from the corner of his eye, he could see Isaac give Hale a stern and expectant look. 

Then, in what Stiles would be willing to call and act of God, Derek Hale’s face softened ever-so-slightly, and the barest ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. “If Isaac can move beyond it, I guess I will too. I suppose I can bestow you with my forgiveness.” He was all airs and pompous confidence, his face still practically screaming 'you're a peasant.' Stiles couldn't quite tell if it was a joke or not, but seeing as Derek would never just smile at him  _benignly,_ he felt confident it probably was.

God, that smirk. Stiles could _hear_ the smirk. Could _feel_ it, deep down in his bones.

He bristled despite himsel. “Bestow? You're not exactly an innocent victim…” He felt Isaac’s loose grip tighten around his shoulders, and he shook away the frustration in his voice, breathing deeply and sighing. “Thanks,” he managed, albeit insincerely.

Isaac cleared his throat, stepping casually back toward the team, seeming to resign himself to something Stiles couldn’t quite recognize. At least, for now. “Why don’t you guys come and watch practice? It’ll be motivational to have an audience.”

Scott’s calm façade shattered, and his eyes began to glisten. “Really?”

Hale quirked a brow, his face wearing something close to amusement. “You’re not a Liverpool fan, are you?” He grinned for the barest of moments, then suddenly dropped the ball to sit beneath his cleat instead, looking quickly back toward the pitch at the sound of the whistle. “Bugger, we’ve got to get back. If you want to stay, I guess that’s alright.”

Isaac gave Stiles one last, friendly beam, then jogged off towards the rest of the team, tossing his empty Gatorade bottle at the bench from the center of the pitch. Scott poked Stiles’ arm, the excitement evident in his voice, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “Come on, let’s go find a seat on the edge of the grass."

Stiles was too confused to do anything but comply. He followed after Scott numbly, gazing wide-eyed at the distressingly gorgeous starters he’d only just had the time to properly appreciate. Every skin-tone, every build, every hair colour - blonde to black - all lined up like models, sweaty, sporty and  _stunning._

Was Stiles Stilinski, local shut-in, beta-carotene addict and angst-ridden twenty-something in an unhealthy relationship with his computer, really about to be privy to a professional footy drill? Mere hours after soaking one of its primary players in a delightful merlot?

Stiles very rarely struggled to find words, but this was one of those times. He sat cautiously beside Scott, so close he could reach out and brush the edge of the white line painted in the grass with his fingertips if he wanted to. He could hardly define what he was feeling in that moment, some mixture of sadness and thrill, some sense of nostalgia tainted by disbelief. 

Woe as he was to admit it, Stiles had loved football as a kid. Loved the atmosphere and community, the bright colors and flushed cheeks. He lived for the sweet, strong scent of caramel corn and the feeling of unimpeded smiles aimed his way; he _breathed_ for the groans of players and fans alike when defeat had been reached and accepted. Mom too, mom with her easy grins and neon signs with his name outlined in glitter glue, tiny stickers of footballs littering the paper in bizarre, haphazard patterns.

“You okay?” Scott asked quietly, leaning closer and criss-crossing his legs.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, his eyes trained on Isaac, who was lithely weaving between a set of worn orange cones, warming up for some play unknown to him. “It’s just strange, you know? I haven’t been to a game since…” He trailed off, but the look in Scott’s eyes told Stiles he understood.

The Scott suddenly blanched, eyes ripe with embarrassed realization, and in a moment he was shifting to stand at the drop of a pin. “I wasn’t thinking, Stiles, I’m sorry. We could…”

Stiles held a hand up, shaking his head resolutely. “No. No, this is good. She’d hate if I let her spoil something like this for much longer, anyway.” He tilted his head, instinctively following the rapid movement of the football as it was tossed back in after being sent out of bounds. “Dad will be glad to hear I came, too. He was always so disappointed I quit; thought it made me even sadder.”

Scott sounded muted beside him, like he was talking through a window. “What time is he coming over tonight?”

“Seven,” Stiles answered quietly, eyes sliding hesitantly away from Isaac and onto Hale as he dominated the field, strong and confident, his movements all sure and exacting. “We’re ordering Chinese, since we’re both complete shite at cooking.”

The thought of the last meal they’d tried to cook together brought a small smile to Stiles’ face as he and Scott sat in companionable silence. Him and Dad had made it the night Mom passed, the first time in his entire life that she wasn’t there to help them with the touchy, broken oven anymore. It had been the worst thing he’d ever tasted, and for just a second, they’d both been blinded by teary laughter, their forks discarded on the table with charred chicken still speared on their prongs. For just that second, that one moment of bliss, they’d forgotten that they shouldn't be happy anymore.

“Does he want to talk about the Mail?”

Stiles gave a start and then nodded, absentmindedly tracing Hale’s legs with his eyes, feeling a slow spark of uncomfortable arousal starting in his gut. “Yeah.”

“Stiles?”

He yanked his eyes away from Hale, a deep flush working its way across his cheeks. What was he thinking? He really needed to get laid if he was lowering the bar to include Derek Hale in the 'Stiles Stilinski List of People He Would Fuck Into Oblivion.' Even if such sins were unconscious, and Hale was admittedly gorgeous. “Yes?” Stiles finally squeaked, trying hard not to betray his dirty thoughts...and, predictably, failing miserably.

Scott grinned. “If you’re done checking Derek out, Isaac’s motioning us over.” He offered Stiles a raise of his eyebrow, then waggled them in an obscene imitation of being suggestive.

Stiles huffed indignantly, stumbling quickly to his feet and coughing to hide his embarrassment . “I was _not_ , Scott. Now come on, mustn’t keep them waiting.”

The rest of the players filed slowly of the field, Boyd giving him a subtle wave from across the way. That left two familiar figures looming in the distance, waiting expectantly with a ball still propped beneath Hale’s cleat.

Isaac beamed, his face bereft of all tension, worries lost in a rush of endorphins and perspiration. His practice shirt clung sinfully close to his shoulders, damp and worn. Stiles tried very, very hard not to assess if Hale’s shirt was in a similarly distressingly attractive state. Isaac tossed Scott and Stiles each a hopeful look. “How ‘bout we four play a pick-up game?”

Scott’s jaw fell ever-so-slightly open. Stiles briefly considered punching him in the arm. This idolization was getting a bit out of hand. “Really?”

He was relatively certain that Scott had lost any modicum of chill he’d managed to possess when the team had shown up next door. Scott’d used it all up pretending to be unimpressed in Stiles’ apartment, and now here he was, looking every inch the kid in the candy store being handed a free sample

Hale tossed the ball at Scott, and he caught it with an ‘ummph!’ “Really. Now, you’re on my team, Stiles is with Isaac.”

Stiles floundered for words, his humor faltering beneath a sudden rush of panic. _Football?_   He hadn’t played since…well. Then. That day so many years ago, now. “Dude, I’m wearing leather boots. How am I supposed to pull that off?”

Hale’s eyes narrowed in challenge. “Scared?”

Stiles’ skin prickled with the indignity of it all, and he coldly met Hale’s amused stare. “Not a chance,” he leveled, ripping off his cranberry red sweater valiantly to reveal a clingy white undershirt. Or, you know, he tried to do it that elegantly. He mostly just succeeded in getting stuck with his sweater halfway off, catching it on his nose and making a right _mess_ out of his hair. He smoothed it down with a ‘humph’, tossing his sweater carelessly on the sideline, and strode off to the center of the pitch.

Stile steadfastly ignored the chilly goosebumps on his arm as Isaac laughed, walking off towards the goal with an expression of something like affection. Hale gave him a look caught halfway in between incredulity and amusement, then set the football in its proper position, taking up the spot across from him.

“Ready?”

Yeah, like he was going to give Hale the advantage here. Stiles wasted no time cheating like a right twat, nicking the ball from the center line the moment the word had left Hale’s mouth, and speeding off toward the goal opposite his, where Scott was hesitantly standing guard. It felt strange, after all these years, the rush of cool air on his cheeks, his muscles burning with exquisite heat, breath coming in and out with the superb relief that oxygen brought to his aching lungs.

Vaguely, in the back of his head, Stiles could hear the surprised, distant cheers of Isaac, the confused noises of an increasingly close Derek Hale, and his own heavy breathing as he struggled to outrun his distinctly fitter pursuer.

“ _Shite,_ ” he wheezed, his knee twisting uncomfortably just moments before he saw Hale appear quite suddenly on his right, a cleated foot sliding directly into the ball's path and sending it shooting off towards the stands.

And sending the two of them crashing to the ground, the impact hard and fast.

Stiles groaned for a couple moments then coughed, his limbs a tangled mess of fresh bruising and dirt, spitting what he was pretty sure was grass onto the pitch as he took inventory of his arms and legs. He brushed himself off, giving a loud huff. “You arsehole...” He mumbled, then gave a start as he realized that Hale was curled into a ball beside him, trembling.

“Derek, shite, are you okay?” Stiles probed, uncertainty edging into his voice.

Hale turned to face him, his face damp and covered in grime, laughter escaping him in quiet, almost shy bursts. He was grinning, wiping tears from his face, throwing his arms out behind him and falling melodramatically back against the cold, hard dirt of the pitch. “You little shit! You’re not bad. You’re not bad at all. Could’ve outrun me, if it weren’t for those gangly legs of yours.”

Gangly.

Stiles couldn't help a smile, in spite of himself.

What a bastard.

# ❀

Stiles was desperately in love with sesame chicken, and he didn’t care who knew it.

But it _was just_ a wee bit shameful that he was so focused on its tangy, delicious scent that he didn’t even notice a pensive figure following along after his father when he arrived for supper that evening. The moment John Stilinski had set the brown paper bag down on the scratched-to-shite block of wood Stiles dared call a table he was pouncing on and tearing into the food like a starved animal.

So sue him. Stiles was twenty-four, he pretty much always acted this way.

“Stiles?” His father asked, voice caught somewhere between aghast, reproachful and fond.

“Mmmmm?” Stiles mumbled through a mouthful of fried rice, his box long since torn open, a piece of chicken gripped loosely between his twin disposable chopsticks. Like a faithful minion, his chicken was ready for whenever Stiles decided its services were needed. Godspeed, loyal creature.

“You should probably greet your guests before you start eating,” John Stilinski scolded.

Stiles could feel the amused chastisement radiating from his father’s tone, and he snorted into his nearly perfectly rounded mound of rice, childishly sticking his tongue to its rounded top and coming away with half a dozen loose grains sticking to it. Stiles gave a quiet sniff of offense and swallowed his rice, crossing his ankles and digging his toes into the carpet.

“Why? It’s just you,” he finally put in snottily. The silence dragged on perilously tense as he poised a piece of rice between his front teeth and bit it in half while he dug through the bag for duck sauce.

Then, quite suddenly, the word “guests”— distinctly plural — echoed through his brain like a ricocheting bullet, and Stiles’ head whipped around faster than one’s head should feasibly go, knocking the his bottle of Diet Mountain Dew to the floor.

“Oh,” he managed, blinking away the shock and meeting the borderline _pleased_ gaze of one Derek Hale. He scrambled to grab the bottle before it rolled away, setting it hesitantly back on the table. His father had one sandy brown brow quirked, his arms crossed and disapproving in a manner only his father could pull off. “Hello…guests,” Stiles said belatedly, dropping his utensils into the styrofoam container to scratch the back of his head. “May I ask why there are two of you?”

His father met his eyes with a challenging stare, then sighed in resignation and pulled out both his and Derek’s chairs, gesturing for the still brooding Hale to sit while he unpacked the remaining food. The moment its box touched the table Hale dove into his chicken, eating with all the grace and tact one could expect from a twenty-something athlete who’d just finished footy practice a couple hours prior. “I figured it would be best for the two of you to work this out if I were here to stop any…physical confrontation.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, steadfastly ignoring the unsettlingly sexy way Derek Hale managed to _eat Chinese food_ like his tongue were the most agile muscle on the planet _._ It’s chicken, dude, you don’t need to _lick its circumference._ Christ. “Dad, I’m not going to punch someone three times my size.”

 _Especially when I’m ten seconds from having the world’s most uncomfortable erection,_ he tacked on silently, squirming uncomfortably in his seat and willing his prick to  _behave._

John Stilinski shook his head, handing Hale a small container of sauce to restore the stuff he’d already licked off, before opening his own box. “Son, you’re not on the cover of the Daily Mail because of your _excellent restraint,_ so forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Hale glanced up  with a wry smile, and Stiles glared at him. He just shrugged it off, swallowing his mouthful of General Tso's and looking pointedly into Stiles' eyes. “Hey, Isaac kicked me out, what else was I going to do? Your father offered me food.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, pursing his lips and staring down at his own sticky orange chicken with sudden distaste. He wasn’t really hungry now that he was busy being pissed. Bugger, Hale had ruined the one pure love still in Stiles’ life: the love he and his stomach shared. “How did Isaac throw you out of your own apartment?” He managed finally, exasperated. He wiped his hands on his jeans, thrusting his chin out and into his outstretched hand.

Hale just shrugged again and Stiles groaned, pointing at him accusatorily. “Better question, then, _why_ did Isaac throw you out of your apartment?”

“I was supposed to apologize to you at the field earlier,” Hale answered dryly, giving Stiles’ dad a look that almost seemed…regretful? His father paid them no heed, pulling out his phone to look at his newest batch of unread emails. There was always a need for his help, even when he went home. “And I didn’t, obviously. He was right pissed at me after that.” Hale coughed and glanced up, his face smooth and blank as he gestured in a broad arc. “And here I am.”

Stiles grunted. “Here you are,” he repeated, distinctly less than impressed.

His father tossed a fortune cookie at him, nailing him in the side of the head. Stiles hissed and rubbed the spot with a frown. “Stiles,” his dad warned, glancing up from whatever he was typing to pin him with his signature “courtroom eyes”—“Don’t be rude to Derek. He’s your guest.”

“He started it!” Stiles protested.

Derek snorted then raised a brow, pitching his voice higher in a piss poor imitation of Stiles. At least, he hoped it was piss poor. “'I don't know what sort of row the hundred of you are having, but do you have any idea how fucking _loud_ you’re being?’” He mocked, then downed another bite of General Tso's. “Yeah, that sounds distinctly like I started it.”

“You were being loud!”

Hale rolled his eyes. “I was _moving in!_ Of course it was loud!”

“Boys,” his father warned, and the two of them clamped their mouths shut. Hale gave him a look and Stiles stuck out his tongue. Maturely.

“Fine, then." Stiles relented, taking a tentative bite and chewing thoughtfully. "Civil. Civil. How was practice?” He threw out finally, poking absently at his food.

Hale snorted and made an incredulous expression that told Stiles exactly how ridiculous he thought that question was. Stiles bristled, his face flushing an unattractive and splotchy pink. “You know how it was. You were there.”

“See! It’s impossible!” He cried, throwing his hands up in dramatic exasperation, trying hard not to let his embarrassment show more than it already _had_. “I can’t get through to him. He’s like a brooding, snappy statue!”

Crown Prosecutor Stilinski, that was what Stiles called him when he was in court mode, rolled his eyes. Again. “Stiles, that _was_ a pretty stupid question.”

“Objection!”

“Overruled.

Hale put down his chopsticks, pinning Stiles under the 'Derek Hale Stare of Disapproval.' Trademarked. “Look, I didn’t come here to argue, so let me get this out before we strangle one another.” Hale ran his tongue over his teeth, sucking thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry I overreacted at the Gala. I have a bloody terrible temper and I’m overly protective of Isaac. I went way too far, and I apologize.”

Stiles sniffed, his nose snubbed high in the air. He even waited a few tense seconds, just to really build the suspense. He was a drama queen like that. “I suppose I can bestow you with my forgiveness,” he said finally, inflecting as much of Derek’s pompous tone as he could into his own voice.

“Stiles!”

An honest-to-goodness smile broke across Hale’s face, his stiff façade splitting in half with amused recognition. “No, I deserved that.”

And Stiles…Stiles could feel the unsettling way his heart skipped a beat at that. Could feel the sudden tightness in his gut and the coil of arousal slithering all the way down to his groin.

He fought back a scowl. God, did this little _shite_ have to be so goddamn attractive?

He eyed the muscles beneath Hale’s tight, black Henley tee and puffed his cheeks out indignantly.

Or big shite. Whatever.

“So, _Derek,”_ he began tauntingly, the name heavy on his tongue, when suddenly his computer began to blare frantically, a tinny jingle dancing through the air.

Stiles could sing that jingle in his sleep. He felt a hollow chill spread through his stomach and a knot tense in his throat. Almost instantly he’d shoved his chair out, ready to pounce on his computer and defend his faction’s base...Central City...at a moment’s notice.

Only—he wasn’t alone.

“The Raid!” They chorused.

Wait… _they?!_

He whipped his head around far too quickly for the second time that night, his eyes meeting Derek’s, the click of recognition settling in his brain with sudden clarity.

“… _you play Lords of Legions?”_

Derek froze, his entire body rigid with coiled tension. And for the first time since he’d moved next door, Derek Hale was at a loss for words. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, and he made a couple helpless little squawks, a hand coming up to cover his face in what Stiles presumed was shame.

“…No?”

“Oh. My. _God!”_ Stiles screeched, the joy spilling unbidden into his voice, his mouth cracking into an enormous and victorious smile. “Derek Hale plays Lords of Legions! This is the best day of my life! You are such a colossal _nerd._ ”

Derek peered out from behind his fingers, scowling. “You do realize that you’re calling yourself a nerd too, correct?”

Stiles waved his hand dismissively. “That is a surprise to no one. This, however…” he gestured at Derek, his hands encompassing the full nature of his ab-tacular fame, “would be.”

Derek ruffled his own hair with aggressive frustration, then rubbed his temples. “Look, Stiles, we’ll talk about this later. But _we have a problem._ Central City is under attack, and I’m assuming if you’re receiving this alert that you’re one of its designated guardians.”

“Shite! You’re...actually right, for once.” Stiles steadfastly ignored the triumphant smirk spreading across his father’s lips, glancing quickly between Derek and his computer. “And, seeing how you recognized the alert, you are too. Quick, I have a backup laptop under the desk, you can sign in.”

Stiles winced his way through the sudden, sharp pang of fondness that he felt as Derek— _Hale,_  not Derek— rushed over and reached beneath his oak desk, frantically tapping in his username and password, his face filled with abject concern about a virtual city that they both had a strange tenderness for. He’d never met another person, in “real life” at least, who treated the game with such reverence. It was almost…nice.

Stiles had a barely-there smile on his face, feeling strangely at ease as one hand typed in his password and the other grabbed his microphone. His father had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, and Stiles rummaged around his desk and found a highlighter to throw at in his general direction. Unfortunately, he hadn't had time to bring his chicken, because that would have made for a distinctly stickier projectile.

He slyly glanced down at Derek, who was staring intently at the bright screen in his lap. And there was something sweet about it all. Derek's brow furrowed, his large hands cramped on the tiny keyboard of Stiles' backup laptop, his shoulders hunched and legs crossed like a child. Hale gnawed the edge of his lip, flipping through his inventory to get some weapon or another.

Then Stiles averted his gaze to the screen and blanched, his mouth hanging ajar with soundless shock.

The fondness was forgotten, righteous anger filling him with cold fury. He felt his throat go dry.

"You're _AlphaH?!"_


	5. Lou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles may or may not be accosted by temperamental kittens.  
> Derek Hale's couch may or may not be accosted by those same kittens.

⚽

**♪ _Style ~_ Taylor Swift ♪**

⚽

* * *

Stiles’ days rarely started, or ended, the way he expected they would.

Today was no exception.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Stiles’ carrot dangled disbelievingly from his forefinger and thumb, forgotten halfway on its journey to his now slack jaw. He had the guild roster open on his screen. At the very top, in the taunting bold lettering that denoted a new member, was the username  **AlphaH**. Danny was chattering on and on about how lucky they were, and Stiles was ten seconds away from throwing his computer out the window.

“I’m not!” Danny insisted, and Stiles could practically _hear_ his grin from the other end of their call. “He’s a notorious loner on the server, and out of absolutely bloody _nowhere_ he asks if he can join the guild. It’s like Christmas a month early. Getting another guardian for the roster is unprecedented, you cynical tit! At least pretend to be happy for my sake.”

Stiles groaned and tossed his head back, deep in the throes of agony.

This must be what a lobotomy felt like.

Angry didn't even begin to describe the sort of passionate rage he was feeling. This guild was _his thing._ He was going to kill Derek. He was legitimately going to thoroughly and completely _murder him._ Preferably the way that guy did in the Youtube video with the spoons. “He’s my neighbour and he’s absolutely _insufferable_. He just wants to join to piss me off!”

Danny gave a verifiable hiss of disapproval, which Stiles fervently ignored. “He’s your neighbor _?_ Why didn’t you ask him _first?_   Slacker.”

“Insufferable, Danny!” Stiles maintained, sniffing indignantly. He surreptitiously glared at the wall that he and Hale shared, even though he knew Danny couldn’t well _see_ him over an audio connection, and it wasn’t like Hale could feel his murderous intent through plaster. “Besides, I didn’t even know he played until a couple of days ago. The guy doesn't look like a gamer. How was I supposed to know?”

His guild master ‘tsked’ and started typing something on his end. Stiles could hear the rhythmic clicking of keys. “Is this the same neighbor who throws all the house parties?”

“Yes!”

Danny snorted through his microphone — at least, Stiles assumed it was a snort; Danny’d mostly just managed to sound like a clogged vacuum cleaner. Stiles would know the sound, too. He’d had a tragically large amount of experience with breaking things intended to _clean_ , including but not limited to: steam mops, irons, washing machines, and one very unfortunate maid. “See, Stiles, it’s _totally possible_ to have a social life and a game life. I think you’re just right pissed his shite is more together than yours.”

Stiles bristled and glared at Danny’s chat window. “I hate you, Danny.”

“No, you don’t,” Danny retorted smugly, his heavily armoured avatar eying Stiles’ with something like a smirk. 

Stiles gave a long-suffering and dramatic exhale. briefly closing his eyes so he could really soak in the tragedy of it all. “You’re right. I don’t. But do you have to call me on it?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Danny answered primly, though Stiles was positive he was just full of shite and Danny was actually just holding in the girliest of all the world’s giggles. Stiles was hilarious and Danny knew it, too. “Your melodramatics are getting out of hand, really. I mean, you dumped wine on a footy player. Which you _still_ haven’t explained, by the way, and I haven’t pried. I’m doing you many, many favors, and to be honest, you should be grateful.”

Now was most certainly not the time to tell Danny that his neighbor  _was_ said football player. He'd never endure the merciless teasing that would ensue; nor the constant implications that he should, quote, "Tap that."

“Pompous arsehole,” Stiles murmured into his microphone instead, just as the door to his apartment flew open.

“ _Stiles!_ ”

Stiles ‘whoosh-ed’ around in his simply _delightful_ spinny chair, took one look at his best friend’s tired, desperate eyes, and quickly clicked out of the game and chat with a brief “Gotta go, later.” Moments later Stiles had practically _launched_ himself out of his seat and into a bro-hug of epic proportions. “What’s the matter, Scotty? You look terrible,” he mumbled into Scott’s shoulder. He smelled like Irish Spring soap and those tiny oranges he could never remember the name of.

Scott sighed in that ‘woe-is-me’ way that broke Stiles’ heart into fifteen separate pieces.

“I need your help.”

Which is how Stiles ended up in the middle of a cluttered veterinarian’s office twenty minutes later, covered in more cats than he knew existed in the entirety of goddamn England. He was still trying desperately hard not to squeak like a child when suddenly a cold, wet nose touched his exposed ankle, and it all went to girly, squeal-y shit.

Fuck him for wearing his “too-long-for-Stiles” jeans, rolled up to his calves so they wouldn’t drag through the mud and icy slush in the parking lot. And fuck Scott, for not warning him that his office was _covered_ in even more tiny, furry, dusty animals than usual. He’d managed to shake off all but the one cat clinging to his shoe for dear life, but that one would _not budge._

He’d always known it was the right choice to be a dog person.

“Dude, it’s on my foot and it won’t leave. What do I do? Do I pick it up, or will it bite me?” Stiles _may_ have been mildly frantic, but no one else had to know that. He was remaining totally composed. There was no panic in his voice. Not at all. Nope.

“You can pick him up, Stiles,” Scott sighed, exasperatedly eyeing him for what must have been at least the fourth time since they’d left Stiles’ apartment. Scott slipped on his white jacket and flipped the sign on the door. “You’ll need to get accustomed to them pretty quickly, because you’re going to be bathing them and cleaning their boxes.”

“You didn’t mention I’d be bathing Satan’s spawn when you asked me to help today _, Scott.”_

Scott, that git, failed to cover his smirk in time to avoid his best friend’s livid gaze, which only served to send him into another fit of laughter.

Stiles gingerly pulled the orange kitten up off of his shoe and into his arms, briefly considering throwing the cat at Scott as retribution. But Stiles was half afraid he’d break _it_ and half afraid it would break _him,_ so he tentatively stroked the top of its head instead and resigned himself to simply glare.

“I knew you wouldn’t come if I did,” Scott explained (without proper concern for Stiles' murder aura, if you asked him) while Stiles tried to figure out how the fuck to finagle the cat so it wouldn’t scratch his eyes out.

“You’re the worst best friend in the entire world, and this is a world where Danny and Lydia exist, so I hope you’re happy. Here I am, sacrificing valuable questing time to save your sorry arse because your _cat-bather_ or whatever called in sick, and all I get is a pack of lies and a—holy shit, _Scott_ , what is it _doing?”_

All of this was, of course, said in the manliest of fashions.

Scott grinned, flipping through his schedule for the day and tapping a pen against the clipboard to the rhythm of whatever song was playing overhead. Fuck, he was going to have to listen to bubblegum pop all day too? This just kept getting worse. “He’s kneading you, Stiles. Look! He likes you.”

Stiles shoved his hands beneath its front legs and pulled the kitten up to eye level, levelling his gaze at its bright, mischievous blue eyes. “The feeling’s not mutual buddy,” he said solemnly.

The kitten batted half-heartedly at his nose with a tiny paw and mewled.

“This thing is a dick,” he declared to his audience of one, and Scott let out a deep a throaty laugh.

“Dick or nay, you’re in charge of them until closing time. I took ‘em off the shelter’s hands, since they were full and it’s hardly fair to leave a bunch of kittens out in the cold. But Deaton can’t be here to help with the client load, so you’ll have to do.”

“Scott,” Stiles said sternly, ignoring the frankly un-creative insult and tucking the tiny, wiggling thing beneath his arm like an adorably angry football. God, this tiny cat was going to be the death of him. “You need to learn to say ‘no’. You also need to hire an actual receptionist and leave me alone.”

“Stiles,” Scott said, glancing up to raise a brow at his best friend. “Those are strong words coming from a man who didn’t have enough restraint not to dump wine on his date’s footy Captain, and strong demands from a man who tried to hide dark chocolate from me in his underwear drawer. _Again_.”

Scott absently bent down to pet one of the kittens at his feet, gnawing on his lip and murmuring something that sounded vaguely medical while Stiles glared. “You can stop being my lackey when you stop hiding the chocolate," he tacked on, which helped precisely nothing.

“Prick,” Stiles muttered, ignoring Scott’s smile as he tossed the clipboard onto the desk and rubbed his hands together, like the dogs and cats and ducks and shite would really care or notice if Scott had cold hands when he sliced off their happy bits.

“Now, if you’re done, the gloves, litter pans, and such are in the back. Make sure you come out and help anyone who comes in. I’ll be in my office until the first appointment at 10.”

Stiles groaned and eyed the other four furry animals meandering lazily around the office.

The one beneath his arm reached out a paw and knocked a stack of papers to the floor, staring him dead in the eyes while he did it.

He hated this stupid cat.

# ❀

He loved this stupid cat.

He'd named it Lou.

Which he'd indignantly told Scott when Scott had made the grave error of referring to Lou as simply "the cat" in front of him.

Lou had preened at that, meowing at appropriate points and giving Scott a look that could only be described as 'stern'.

Somewhere between it sitting smugly on his shoe and it tearing Stiles to meaty bits in the ceramic tub out back, he had fallen in love with this selfish, violent, temperamental little arsehole. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, but this kitten was goddamn endearing in a way that suddenly had Stiles understanding why parents put up with their crying, snotty children.

Speaking of which, he’d have to call his dad later.

Stiles was tempting the little cat with the end his (Scott’s) pen, the other four kittens fast asleep on the towel he’d laid in the corner earlier, when Scott ventured back into the lobby, his coat folded beneath his arm, staring down at his phone with a look of doom splashed across his usually placid face.

“What is it, dude?” Stiles asked, because he was a good fucking person, that’s why. And few things can make Scott look this outright devastated.

This was 'the end of Harry Potter book six' devastated. 

He was upset, is what Stiles was getting at.

Scott looked up at him sadly, gesturing to the tiny animal rolling about in Stiles’ lap. Lou was aggressively gnawing on the end of the ‘TDBank’ pen that Stiles had outright handed him after a valiant battle just a moment before. “The girl who was going to take Lou was just evicted from her apartment. She said she’s going to have to move back in with her parents—she can’t take him.”

Stiles shrugged, but found himself frowning ever-so-slightly. “Just keep him here for another couple days until you can find someone else. He’s not that bad, I’m sure Deaton won’t mind.”

Scott eyed him, biting his lower lip with abject concern, when suddenly a mischievous grin wormed its way across his face, a lone brow rising as he looked between Lou and Stiles. “Stiles…” he began.

Stiles blanched, shaking his head violently and startling Lou so badly his little ears perked up and he glanced around with childlike panic. Stiles set a reassuring hand on his head, rubbing a spot beneath his chin with the other. “I know what you’re thinking, but _no_ fucking way, Scott. I cannot be responsible for another living thing. I barely remember to feed myself.”

“Please?”

He sighed and glanced appraisingly down at Lou’s wide, faux-innocent eyes. He nuzzled the cat’s neck with his nose and promptly got a paw to the face.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding.

He loved this dumb animal, and it would probably make his Dad feel heaps better if he wasn’t on his own all the time. He’d always harped on Stiles about that. Since the moment he’d bought Stiles his own apartment, it had been all pleading eyes and concerned phone calls: _You always look so sad, Stiles. It helps to have someone or something around, son. You can miss her and still move on. Do me a favor and find some company. Since Melissa’s moved in, I’ve finally been able to breathe again._

But it wouldn’t be him if he didn’t make the entire ordeal a show, so he spent several torturous moments looking torn, before letting out a defeated, “… _fine.”_

The two of them spent the next hour “shopping” in the back room of Scott’s clinic, stuffing disposable litter pans, food, bowls, and toys into half a dozen recycled plastic bags from Tesco, and forcing a distinctly displeased and angrily-meowing Lou into a purple-fabric cat carrier before heading back to his flat.

Stiles made a mental note to get a real litter pan tomorrow, and somehow managed to collect all of his bags and his new goddamn _cat_ into both hands before nodding goodbye to Scott at the entrance to his apartment building.

He should have known better than to think this was going to go well.

He stumbled clumsily up the stairs, making a goddamn hell of a racket while he tried not to jar Lou too badly. He’d just reached the last step when quite suddenly, at precisely the same time that Derek Hale opened his apartment door, Lou escaped through a hole he’d chewed in the mesh of his carrier on the drive over.

Stiles managed to block the stairs to any cat-escapism with his Tesco bags, but was helpless to do anything but watch on in horror as Lou darted between Derek’s ankles and directly into his apartment, squishing himself beneath his black leather couch.

“What the actual fuck, Stiles,” he ground out, looking caught somewhere between irritated and surprised. Angry-prise, Stiles called it. It was about as close as you got to a non-murderous emotion out of Derek, most of the time.

“Um, hey, dude. That is my new cat, Lou. As you can see, this was an accident, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t murder me or my new friend there.” Stiles scratched the back of his head, then pointed to the couch through Derek’s still wide-open door. “Do you think I could go get him?”

Derek growled, low and frustrated, before rolling his eyes with resignation. “Go set that shite in your apartment. I’ll get your cat.”

“See, I’m not sure if he’ll let you. We’ve grown pretty close, that cat and I, I’m the only one he trusts.” He eyed Derek seriously, quirking a brow. “Lou is ferocious, Derek.”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stiles, go.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He didn’t argue any further, just propped open his apartment door with one foot, listening with growing amusement as Derek huffed his way under the couch and dragged a hissing Lou back to Stiles' door. When he finally appeared, Hale's arms were covered in tiny, spider web scratches, and Lou was looking triumphant as he sat perched on his forearm.

“Your cat is a dick,” Derek deadpanned.

“I like dicks,” Stiles deadpanned right on back, then unceremoniously snatched Lou, who began purring the minute he was in Stiles’ arms, from a wide-eyed Derek Hale. “Come on. I’ve got a first aid kit under my sink; I’ll clean up your arms.”

“I don’t need your help with scratches, Stiles,” Derek snorted back divisively, apparently right on back to his grumpy self.

“Sit down and shut up, _Derek_ ,” he muttered petulantly, and to his surprise, Derek did just that. He pushed his way into Stiles' apartment, sat down at Stiles’ tiny “dining-room” table, and sulked like a teenager after a bad break-up.

Stiles closed the door and set Lou down to explore while he grabbed the first-aid kit from his washroom. He flipped through the supplies on his way over, pulling out the alcohol swabs, bandages, and ointment, then knelt down in front of Hale and motioned impatiently for him to hold out his arms, which were currently quite occupied being angrily crossed over his chest.

Derek managed to follow instructions for the second time in five minutes, much to Stiles’ surprise, and Stiles set to work cleaning off the bloodied scratches with isopropyl alcohol, before adding some antibiotic ointment and putting a bandage on one or two of the worse scrapes.

“There!” Stiles declared triumphantly, and grinned up at Derek, who was still gazing down at him with dead eyes, markedly unimpressed. He cleared his throat and tore his gaze away, staring pointedly at Stiles' enormous pile of Tesco bags.

“You just had to use alcohol, didn’t you?” Hale grunted in lieu of a ‘thanks’, and Stiles glared at him with an admittedly lacking amount of ferocity.

“It’s the most effective disinfectant, sourpuss,” he answered back dryly, but then he was smiling anyway, rising to his feet and making a shoo-ing hand motion. “Now go on. Get out of my apartment, before my cat takes you down _again._  I don't know how you're supposed to handle full grown men on the pitch when you can't even handle a boy and his cat.”

“Goodnight, _Stiles,”_ Derek said, with all the sincerity he’d have offered a Liverpool player, sending his chair flying when he stood and flipping him off while he stomped to the door. He looked anything but sincere, and Stiles could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile on his face.

“Goodnight, arsehole!” Stiles called right back.

A surprisingly good night, indeed.

Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone.


	6. Partners

 ⚽

 _**♪ I'll Be There -**_ **Jackson 5** _**_**♪**_** _

⚽

* * *

 “Stiles, I need your help.”

This was it. Stiles was dead and this was hell. Because in no fair and just world would Derek Hale be standing at his front door, silver laptop in hand, clad only in a pair of hole-y jeans and a threadbare, long-sleeve grey t-shirt with a ManU logo on the front.

In a fair world, it was his best friend Scott, coming to cook him breakfast and fold his laundry as an apology. Scott had a lot to apologize for these days.

Mainly, saddling him with a cat that had kept him awake half the night.

But, instead, he had Derek. And Derek didn’t even have socks on.

That was just unsanitary.

“You’re not Scott,” Stiles said dumbly, suddenly glad that he was at least partially hidden behind his flimsy white door. He dragged a dry hand across his mouth and cracked his shoulders, leaning his forehead against the cool wood and letting his eyes drift close for a couple moments before he met Derek’s levelling stare.

 It was barely nine in the morning, and Stiles was still slow and sleep soft, his hair sticking up in eighteen different directions and his left cheek a splotchy pink from being squished under his stupid, needy fucking cat.

No amount of ostrich-pillow acrobatics had made the mewls of agony from outside his room quiet. So, like every bloody other night since he’d gotten the little bugger two weeks ago, he’d finally let Lou in his room sometime around four o’clock. Unsurprisingly, he’d ended up spending the next five hours snoring into a belly of purring orange fur.

As it stood, Stiles was only wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt, an embarrassingly childish pair of boxers, and lopsided set of Hanes socks. His eyes were barely open in unimpressed slits, lashes lowered to keep out as much sunlight as humanly possible.

He’d only even managed the shirt because he’d grabbed it off his dresser on his way to the door, reminding himself that there were lines in the sand—nakedness that could not be unseen—even when it _was_ just Scott.

This was not just Scott.

“I answered my door in boxers, but you’re not Scott,” he repeated dazedly, then blinked again, staring groggily at Derek’s nose.

Suddenly, panic slapped him wide awake. His stomach dropped, and he cleared his throat, his head jerking up and his eyes snapping open.

_Boxers. He was speaking to Derek Hale in boxers._

Derek rolled his eyes, seemingly unfazed, and for the first time since he’d opened the door, Stiles noticed that Derek was wearing a pair of big, nerdy, black-frame glasses. Since when did the immaculate Derek Hale need glasses?  Let alone the same sort of glasses hipsters wore to Starbucks and thrift shops when they ironically bought things like leg warmers and no-sugar-added lattes?

“Can you just let me in, Stiles?”

The color drained from Stiles’ face. His brain short-circuited.

“No?” It came out like a question.

Derek raised a lone brow and waited.

Derek was a git.

A git who would _not leave_.

Stiles was relatively certain if he tried to shut the door at this point, Derek would just break it down via the magic of sheer air-power. Huffing and puffing was probably his one of his favorite hobbies, second only to glaring and growling.

But it would be a cold day in hell before Stiles let Derek see him in his Pokemon boxers.

So he was willing to attempt closing the door.

“Ummm, did you miss the part where I’m not fully clothed?” He asked, slowly easing the door forward and hoping for the odds to be ever in his favor (or to, at the very least, have the element of surprise on his side).

“Jesus, I’m not going to try anything, Stiles.” Derek rolled his eyes again and pushed his way in, sending a resolutely stationary Stiles flailing and careening backwards and into a wall. Derek made a beeline for Stiles’ desk, casting him a look that roughly translated to “ _Really? That’s all it took to knock you over?”_  

That look did nothing for the sore spot on Stiles’ throbbing ass as he pushed himself back up to his feet and glared.

Derek was too busy setting up a spot next to his desk to notice, grabbing an armful of pillows and a blanket from the couch and making some sort of squishable layer of bedding on his floor. He threw himself down with a satisfied grumble and opened his laptop.

Stiles gaped.

Derek Hale was nesting in _Stiles’ apartment._

“I’ve got a two hour deadline to finish this quest and I need you to help me. One of the bosses is impossible to solo…” Derek was rattling on, when suddenly Stiles remembered that he was still practically nude and still very much embarrassed about this fact.

“Derek!” Stiles finally squeaked, with all the cajones he could muster—which was admittedly few, even by his low standards. Derek stopped talking and tensed. “I. Am. Not. Clothed! You can’t just walk in here. You can’t do that even if I am clothed, actually. Whatever. The point is, you can’t just push your way into people’s apartments!”

Derek tore his eyes off his screen, gave Stiles a leisurely once over, then shrugged and went back to whatever he was doing with relative indifference. “Now we’re even. I’ve seen you in your underwear and you’ve seen me in mine.”

“That is not how this works! I…”

He paused and shook his head.

This was pointless.

Stiles didn’t even know what to do anymore. He could have literally never imagined this scenario. He was still slumped hopelessly against the wall, every inch of skin from the tips of his ears to his toes (socked toes, he wasn’t an _animal,_ Derek) a bright, angry red. “…I’m going to go get pants,” he managed with about as much dignity as one could expect, wandering off in a daze to his bedroom.

Derek had just checked him out.

Granted, it was in an irritated and disinterested way—the way someone looked at a movie poster or restaurant menu—but _still._ Derek had checked him, Stiles Stilinski, out. For a very brief and poignant moment, the attention of a famous footy player had been focused on him. Only him.

Stiles was going to faint. Or get a boner. One or the other.

Why did that matter?

What did it matter if Derek looked at him? Derek was an asshole. An infuriatingly attractive, occasionally bearable, frightfully talented, nerdy-glasses wearing asshole. With excellent taste in Chinese food. And computer games. And neighbors.

But that was beside the point.

He scowled, shoving the thoughts forcefully away and digging through his dresser drawers for a pair of ugly sweats, settling on his old, paint stained lacrosse pants. Fuck Derek.  Fuck all of this. Stiles wasn’t attracted to him, Stiles was attracted to _nice_ people. Sane people. _Quiet people._

He slammed the drawer shut, which earned an unimpressed look from a still-sleeping Lou, and put on his trousers as aggressively as one could feasibly put on trousers.

Which turned out to be unsatisfying, to say the least.

“You’re an asshole, Lou,” Stiles muttered, shoving on his smudged wire-frame glasses and tossing back his meds without so much as a sip of water. He really shouldn’t take this shit out on his cat, but Lou was the only one who put up with him anymore. Scott was always with Allison, Lydia had no qualms with calling him an idiot, and Danny would just use his privileges as Guild Master to shut Stiles up manually. He took what he could get. “You just get to lie there and sleep the day away while I deal with all this bullshit.”

Lou yawned and rolled onto his back, basking in a stray ray of sunlight leaking through Stiles’ blackout curtains, then fell back asleep in what must have been an instant.

Stiles took in one, two, three deep breaths, scratched Lou’s belly, and then walked back out to the colossal fuckery that was the situation at hand.

“I got you a snack.”

Any anger Stiles had been harboring promptly disappeared when he walked into the room and saw Derek, his entire body wrapped loosely in Stiles’ purple cotton blanket, looking at him expectantly and holding out a tiny bag of baby carrots.

Oh, what the hell.

Stiles raised an eyebrow, took the tiny bag, and ruthlessly tore open the plastic with his teeth. It was the sort of bag that came in a Kid’s Meal at literally any fast food restaurant in the UK, but it was a surprisingly sweet gesture. Derek averted his eyes, then began once again pecking away at his keyboard.

He wasn’t bad, Stiles supposed.

For a git that had practically broken into his apartment, at least.

Stiles tapped leisurely on his keyboard, then clicked his character, and cracked his knuckles.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared.

# ❀

It was exactly as bad as he’d feared.

Lou had decided that Derek’s keyboard was prime—read, _warm_ —real estate, so halfway into the boss battle, Derek’s character had come down with a serious case of ‘random button smash-itis’ and wasted all of its mana on pointless area of effect spells.

The ensuing mob pull was terrifying. The boss was dead, but his minions were more than happy to crush the duo beneath a hail of ice crystals and snow. Stiles had employed some colorful language in the subsequent battle, to put it mildly. He must have pushed forward his development of carpal tunnel by at least a decade.

Stiles and Derek had almost died.

In game, that is.

But Stiles had valiantly pulled them through with his rapier wit and about half a dozen healing potions.

“Derek, you are aware you can kick him off of your laptop, correct?” Stiles muttered, quickly looting the last corpse and using a stone he’d bought yesterday off a mage to teleport them back to Central City. Derek hadn’t even bothered to try and move Lou, he’d just left him there, leisurely watching Stiles freak right the fuck out and demolish at least four dozen ice soldiers with a grudge.

Stiles had made a pretty large sum of gold on the endeavor, though. So he couldn’t complain.

Even though he probably would.

Derek looked totally distracted, staring glassy eyed at the top of Lou’s head and scratching absentmindedly under his chin. His long fingers moved in slow circles, Lou stretching out and soaking in the extra affection like a dry sponge.

It was only fitting that any cat of Stiles’ was a total drama queen.

Stiles cleared his throat and turned to face his neighbor and the tiny incarnation of Satan currently purring away without a care in the world on his laptop. “He doesn’t get to just _sit on people_ if they’re doing things,” he said, giving Lou a stern look that he knew the cat could recognize.

But Derek shrugged, using his free hand to rub behind Lou’s ears and flashing a very brief, and very tentative, smile. Lou was probably victoriously cackling on the inside.

Stiles wished he could send a picture of the scene to some sort of magazine, if only to watch the simultaneous explosion of every ovary in Britain. Derek was still completely burrito-ed in the blanket, his head wrapped in a swath of lilac fabric and his dark hair poking out the front. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, and he seemed half asleep. “He just wants attention. I don’t mind,” Derek finally said quietly, sounding wistful. Maybe a little sad.

“He’s just an attention whore. He literally slept on my face last night,” Stiles murmured, but he didn’t argue.

He managed to sit still for a couple minutes, watching Derek stare at his cat with blind adoration, before his fingers started to twitch for something to do, and he felt himself gravitating towards the kitchen.

Stiles ultimately decided he was hungry, and dragged himself to his fridge like a sloth on a branch. His back creaked when he crouched down to peek in his freezer. “Derek, are you hungry? It’s almost lunchtime,” Stiles called behind him, thumbing through a menagerie of brightly colored boxes of literal frozen garbage.

Nothing contained in these cartons was actual food. Stiles didn’t delude himself.

Derek quickly glanced up, then nodded. He pulled Lou into one arm, setting his laptop on the floor, and sitting hesitantly on the stools at Stiles’ bar. The throw was still wrapped around his shoulders, pooling at his feet.

That’s right. Stiles had a bar. He was classy like that.

“Derek, are you cold or something?” Stiles tutted, moving to turn up the heat before Derek had even answered and switching on the oven with practiced ease. It was almost sad how used to making pizza Stiles was. “I’ll make us a pizza. I’m pretty hopeless at cooking, so that will have to suffice.”

“Stiles?”

Stiles pivoted in his spot, still clutching at least three different types of pizza, his freezer blowing cold air on his shins. He tipped his head to the side, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah?”

Derek seemed hesitant and distinctly less growl-y than usual. It was unsettling. He had one hand under Lou and one hand curled into a tight fist at his side. He looked so small then, wrapped in on himself, his shoulders slumped beneath the thin purple fabric. “Do you mind if I stay the night? I, uh—“  Derek trailed off, his face withdrawn and pensive.

“Derek?”

Derek bowed his head, and Stiles heard the minutest intake of breath. Lou stopped squirming and licked Derek’s chin, letting out an incredibly soft meow. When Derek looked up again, his eyes were tortured. It sent Stiles reeling, and he struggled not to drop his armful of pizzas.

 It was the same look he wore whenever he talked about his mother; pain, emptiness, anger. The very same look. To the letter.  “It’s just…a hard day for me, you know? I’d prefer if I’m not alone. The rest of the team is at Jackson’s cabin for the weekend, but I just…”

Stiles shook his head, putting back the two smaller pizzas and closing the freezer door with the back of his foot. “Dude, that’s totally okay. If there’s anyone that understands, it’s me. I get this way in January. I’ll probably return the favor.”

Derek looked like his relief was palpable. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Stiles said, then grinned and held up a DiGornio box. “Now, sit your ass down. You’ve never seen pizza done quite like this.”

# ❀

“Stiles, we can’t eat pizza for dinner, too.”

Stiles gave Derek a pouty look, waving the chilly red box around with fervor. “Come on, Derek. You know it was delicious. You’re just afraid I’ll recruit you into the cheesy pizza cult of Stiles Stilinski and you’ll never again be able to stomach pizza of an average quality.”

“You use a wholly inappropriate amount of extra cheese,” Derek complained, side eying him from his spot on the couch. He’d thrown out his long legs, and was peering over the top of the cushion with an unimpressed look. “It’s definitely not on my approved diet plan. I’m also pretty fond of my heart; I’d prefer not to drown it in grease.”

“Then get off the couch and order something!” Stiles whined, affectedly throwing the box onto the counter. “You’re a food snob. I cannot cater to your every whim, sourwolf.”

Derek rose from the couch, giving Stiles a questioning look and pulling out a stack of take-out menus from Stiles’ desk drawer. “Sourwolf?”

“You growl all the time and you’re perpetually bitter,” Stiles answered without a moment’s hesitation. “You’re a sourwolf.”

Derek snorted, considered the pile for a moment, and plucked a menu from the stack, holding it up for inspection. “How does Indian sound? I can get something relatively healthy, and you still have the option to ruin every organ vital to your survival with grease and sugar.”

Stiles smiled, tossing the pizza back into the freezer. “Excellent choice. I’ve got a deal with the guy that runs the place. I get 10 percent off if I order at least once a week.”

Derek sighed, almost noiselessly, but he was smirking. “Stiles, that is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Try to control your jealousy, Derek. It’s making you bitter. Now get me six orders of nan bread and some samosas, stat.” He flipped on the faucet and filled the sink, dropping their plates and forks from earlier into the soapy water, then waved a hand dismissively in Derek’s direction. “If you don’t hurry, I may waste away. Do you want my death on your hands, Derek? My dad would have your head on a spike, I promise you.”

Derek  smiled, seeming almost—content?—and punched the numbers into his cell phone before wandering down the hallway to place their order.

This, all of this, was incredibly surreal.  

Somehow, between this morning and now, Stiles had come to see Derek as a person. An incredibly irritating, nosy, entitled person—but a person. Someone who had fears, and flaws. Someone who was so much more than the put together, picture perfect celebrity he’d always thought him to be.

But what was even more strange was that Stiles was growing fond of him. In a tired, exasperated way, mostly.  But he was fond, nonetheless. Like maybe they could be friends.

If he tried really, really hard.

Like, really hard.

He bit his lip and slowly rinsed a Harry Potter plate.

After a few minutes, Derek wandered back toward the kitchen and tossed a balled up menu at Stiles, grinning to himself. “You said lamb and rice, right? Because that’s what I ordered you.”

“You’re so funny, Derek. How creative,” Stiles muttered, but a slight smile was on his face anyway.

And if Stiles had a relatively entertaining night, eating Indian food and playing cards with the neighbor he supposedly hated, no one had to know.

No one at all.


	7. Tired

⚽

**♪ Fire N Gold _~_ Bea Miller  **♪****

⚽

* * *

 “Derek, that is definitely _not_ how you fold a shirt.”

Stiles leaned up against the doorjamb, his empty basket propped against one cocked hip, and offered a quirked brow and an amused smirk. Derek growled and cast a glare at him that could have wilted the entirety of the Royal Botanical Gardens with its smoldering intensity. In Stiles’ case, he somehow found the courage within not to wee his pants.

Like a goddamn man.

Derek bristled for another couple of seconds before finally turning away and resuming his _fabric-scrunching_.

That was not folding. It never had been, and never would be, folding.

“Stiles, I fail to see how the quality of my shirt folding affects you in any way," was his eventual, gruff response.

Stiles sighed and brushed through the doorway to the tiny, yellow laundry room, bending down at the last machine in the row to pull his warm laundry out of the dryer.  He gave a dignified ‘harrumph’ and tossed it in his basket, shaking his head with disappointed emphasis. “It’s an affront to mankind, Derek. I speak on behalf of the entire species when I say that you need to learn to fold like a proper human-being.”

“Go find a proper human-being to teach me, then.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and hefted his basket onto one of the tables in the center of the room with an _oof!_ , right across from where Derek was _crumpling_ his laundry. He still resolutely refused to call it folding. He still had his self-respect, after all.

With another quiet sigh, Stiles cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, meeting Derek’s gaze with the feigned seriousness of a soldier about to embark on a mission with no chance of survival. “Proper human-being, here, about to help you step up your laundry game. Step one—and I know this is hard for you because you have enormous, furry bear hands—remove your garment gingerly from the basket without growling or grimacing. This is very important! You may frighten it, which can wrinkle the fabric.”

Stiles plucked a shirt from the top of his bin, holding it limply up in the air between two fingers and shaking it out. Derek raised a lone, challenging brow—but Stiles powered on. It was of grave importance that Derek understand the complexities of folding clothes. “Step two, shake the garment out and fold the sleeves inward to make the entire thing vaguely rectangular. Spheres are a sign that you’ve made a mistake at this stage, Derek. This may in fact be where you went wrong the first time.”

Derek shook out his shirt and did his best to put the sleeves in the proper position, managing to look both exasperated and terribly amused at the same time.

“Great job!” Stiles inflected the kind of enthusiasm reserved for cheery nursery teachers, bobbing his head reassuringly. “Now, fold it in half length-wise, the way you like to fold under pressure when you’re facing opponents on the pitch during the 2012 playoff prelims, you shameful oaf.”

Derek glared and did the exact opposite. “I didn’t fold under pressure, that was a close game and I scored every goal Manchester had.”

“Hot-dog, not hamburger, Derek!” Stiles squeaked, instead of giving Derek any type of recognition that he was, perhaps, even a little bit talented.

Derek snorted and undid his incorrect fold. “Oh, it’s so clear now,” was his deadpan response, the shirt suddenly rearranged and folded into the proper position. “Thankfully, I have such a patient and nurturing instructor, or this complex and un-intuitive step may have eluded me for all of eternity.”

Stiles nodded solemnly. “Luckily, you do. _Now_ you do hamburger, Captain Hale, and you’re done!” He finished folding his shirt, tossed it in a new pile on the table, and threw his hands up in triumph, beaming at an increasingly bemused Derek

Derek looked down at his neatly pressed Henley with incredulity. “You know, I did that to humor you, but this actually looks better than before. That’s…disheartening.” He gently set the shirt on his lopsided pile, pulling a t-shirt from his basket. “I’d have liked to think your little display was useless, but it appears to have worked, unfortunately.”

Stiles shook out a pair of pants, grinning at the lingering warmth that snaked up his arm as he turned the leg right side-out. “I’m actually pretty brilliant when you bother to listen to me.”

“That’s subjective,” Derek said under his breath, but his smile told Stiles he’d definitely meant to be heard.

“Ignoring the heinous crime you've committed by questioning the legitimacy my genius, sour wolf, I am curious why you’re doing laundry on a Saturday afternoon.” Stiles pulled another pair of pants from his bin, lining up either side of the waistband and folding them in half. “Aren’t you in high demand? Shouldn’t you be having scandalous amounts of sex with your numerous fans and drinking champagne out of a gold chalice?”

“I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of my lifestyle, Stiles,” Derek answered with a quickly aborted snort. “I really only have those parties for the boys’ sake. I’m pretty content to just do chores and play Lords of Legions, if I’m being honest.”

“You’re kidding.”

Derek raised a single brow, deftly plucking up a matching pair of black socks from his basket and rolling them together. “I’m not. Unless I’m having quick and unsatisfying sex with some piece I picked up at the bar, I’m skulking around and making sure everyone keeps their hands to themselves and gets home with all their proper parts attached. It’s terribly boring and entirely unsatisfying. I fucking hate it.”

Stiles laughed. “You hate everything.”

Derek looked as though he was going to claim otherwise for the barest of moments, but then he shrugged instead, his lips curling into a pleased smile. “True.”

And Stiles…Stiles felt a cold twist of fear in the pit of his stomach at that.

Because that easy look on Derek’s face, that soft and amused expression, made Stiles’ brain go fuzzy and his ears burn. The mischievous way that Derek’s eyes lit up, sharp and smart and so so _green,_ but playful and open too…it almost made Stiles want to forget this petty feud and become putty in those big, strangely gentle hands.

But _no._

No, this was Derek.

And Derek was nothing if not the enemy.

Okay, maybe— _at most_ —a casual acquaintance when he bothered to be civil.

If Stiles was being honest, they’d been okay the past few weeks, all banter and charming exhibitions of superiority. But of all the things he was _not,_ the biggest and most important was that Derek Hale was definitely _not_ a good person to have casual sex with.

_Pull it together._

“Stiles, has your brain disconnected again? I hear it helps if you feed it something other than carrots and pizza with extra cheese,” Derek was saying, snapping his big fingers in front of Stiles’ dazed face. When Stiles practically choked on his own spit and coughed his way back to awareness, blinking rapidly and batting Derek’s hand away, Derek had the nerve to look mildly relieved.

“I’m fine,” Stiles mumbled, shaking his head and aggressively rolling together a pair of white socks. “Just tired.”

“Tired?” Derek pursed his lips.

“Yes, Derek. Tired. As in—feeling the need to sleep.” Did he sound bitter? He was bitter.

“I know what it means Stiles, it was more…you know. You should take care of yourself. Make sure you’re getting enough sleep and eating and stuff,” Derek managed awkwardly, shrugging and focusing far too intently on folding a pair of knickers.

“You know, it’s can be relatively hard to sleep when your neighbor’s up until 5 in the fuckin’ morning having a goddamn house party,” Stiles snapped quietly, throwing a set of paired socks into his basket a bit harder than strictly necessary.

He froze, took a deep breath, and stared at the table, his fingers curled into tight, white-knuckled fists.

Stiles really shouldn’t take this… _confusion,_ or whatever it living hell it was _…_ out on Derek.

But he couldn’t _help_ it. He’d always had trouble remembering that sexy didn’t necessarily equal _good,_ and now his traitorous dick was trying to kill him with lecherous feelings about fucking _Derek Hale. W_ ho was most certainly an enormous arse by all reliable accounts.

Even if he did have an amazing one by all reliable accounts.

Plus,Stiles' only defense had always been sarcasm and spite. It's how he  _was,_  this wasn't special.Venom and snark and biting retorts in the place of any actual admission of feelings was pretty par for the course.

Besides, it _was_ pretty irritating that Derek was always partying until the wee hours of the morning, loud bass bleeding through Stiles walls and into his dreams like rainwater from a cracked ceiling.

So it wasn’t entirely unjustified.

Stiles had only just sighed and prepared to apologize despite his better judgement when, out of absolutely nowhere, he felt a soft, bouncy mass thwack him lightly in the middle of his forehead. His wide amber eyes watched them leap across the table and land in the center of the hard plastic top, next to his still tightly-fisted hand.

It was a motherfucking _pair of socks._

He blinked, peering up at an innocent-looking Derek, whose hand was still suspended mid-air.

Stiles was going to kill him. He was going to go on a tirade the likes of which the world had never seen. He was going to…

“I’m sorry; I really didn’t know they were that loud. I thought you were just being a twat about it.” Derek paused, his hand falling limply down to his side, his eyes sincere. “What if tonight, instead of a party, we all have a game night at my flat? You, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Scott and I? Then we’ll end at a reasonable hour, you can get some sleep, and the boys and Erica will be satisfied that they have something to do.”

Stiles gaped, running one hand through his still-damp hair and picking up Derek’s black socks with the other. There was nothing joking about Derek’s tone. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles let that sink in for a minute, squishing his thumb absently into the side of the dark socks. Derek was inviting him over. Voluntarily. To his apartment. For games and snacks and _friendship_ and stuff _. Weird._

So naturally, his next question was: “Can I bring Lou with me?”

Derek raised a single brow. “You want to bring your cat?”

Stiles nodded, setting the socks on the table and hitting them over to Derek’s counter. “We’re codependent, Derek. Well, Lou is dependent; I’m a reluctant participant in an unhealthy inter-species relationship.” Derek looked at him incredulously, and Stiles sighed. “He’ll meow all night if I’m not home by 10 or so, I’m not even joking.”

“Fine, you can bring Lou.”

Stiles grinned, flashing Derek a thumbs-up while Derek was putting his—now folded—laundry in the forest green basket on the edge of the tabletop opposite Stiles’s. “I’ll come over around seven then, yeah? You better have snacks. Not that I trust you with my snack-age, I’ll bring my own anyway, but I’ll be disappointed in you if you slack, nonetheless. Scott still needs to eat, and I don’t share.”

Derek snorted and started towards the door without another word.

“Oh, and Derek?”

Derek paused and turned around, giving him a questioning look.

Stiles snatched a pair of pink ankle socks from his basket, lobbing them at Derek’s scrunched forehead with a devious grin.

“Now we’re even.”

# ❀

“I still can’t believe he invited us _over.”_

Stiles scoffed, stepping into the hallway without holding the door for Scott. He had a limp and sleeping Lou slung over one shoulder and a bag of carrots, biscuits and whiskey over the other. “Why are you surprised, Scott? No one, not even Derek Hale, can resist the Stilinski charm.”

“I bet Isaac made him do it.”

Stiles groaned, absently petting Lou’s head while his purring buzzed in Stiles' ear. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’ve somehow managed to convince Derek that I’m an exciting and worthwhile person to know?”

Scott gave him a traitorous smile. “Ignoring the fact that you are neither of those things, Derek is perhaps the only person more stubborn than you are. He’d never relent for something as trivial as charm.”

Stiles pinned Scott with a glare. “Since when are you the resident expert on Derek Hale? Isn’t that a title typically reserved for ESPN or _Single Women Quarterly_?”

“Since you took it upon yourself to fall in hate-lust with him, I did some research.” Scott rolled his eyes and knocked on the door to Derek’s apartment, three sharp taps with his knuckles that echoed through the corridor. “Don’t even deny it, Stiles.”

"That's not even remotely true, Scott!" Stiles squawked, punctuating his point with aggressive and accusatory pointing. Lou mewled with  sleepy distress until Stiles stopped flailing and settled for blushing and scowling instead.

“This is me denying it, by the way! Contrary to orders!” He announced loudly, for _emphasis_. He was not in hate-lust with Derek. Those were temporary and unremarkable lapses in judgement that said nothing about his character or actual desires. They were just  _lapses,_ not a pattern.

The door to Derek’s flat swung open, and Derek appraised them with hooded eyes, leveling the two of them with a woefully unimpressed stare. "Hello, children." He tugged on a grey t-shirt while Stiles gawped, running a hand through his wild black hair and popping his glasses on. “Sorry, I just woke up from a nap. And deny what?” He asked finally, yawning while Scott gave Stiles a knowing look.

Stiles pushed his way in, steadfastly ignoring his now _ex_ best-mate and setting Lou down on the red, plush rug in the living room. “Ignore Scott, he’s clearly either drunk or otherwise impaired.”

“You’re the one who had a beer before we came over, Stiles,” Scott retorted, following him over to the couch and flopping over into Stiles’ lap. Lou trotted off towards the kitchen, his eyes zeroed in on a cord that was dangling from the unplugged toaster, tail twitching. “If anyone’s straight pissed, it’s you," Scott added. Unnecessarily. 

Stiles shoved him off while Derek took a seat in the over-stuffed leather chair opposite them. “Yes, but I can hold my alcohol. You get drunk off fumes, you clingy lightweight.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “Lush.”

“Weakling.”

“Trollop.”

“Monogamist.”

“Hello, boys! Are you done listing adjectives?”

Both Stiles and Scott were nearly startled off the couch at the loud, booming voice of one Isaac Lahey as he tumbled through the door, Boyd and Erica in tow. He held up a brand new, in-the-plastic _Lord of Legions Monopoly_ box and a bottle of vodka, grinning. “I hear we’re going to have a party.”

“Vodka does not a party make,” Stiles said solemnly, then dug in his bag and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “But whiskey does.”

They set to work setting up a truly epic layout on Derek’s wide coffee table, plastic bowls of chips, tins of biscuits, and trays of meat and cheese scattered among a truly monstrous selection of liquor. Vodka, tequila, rum, whiskey, imported beer…you name it, they had it. Derek had somehow managed not to disappoint with the spread, and his smug face said he knew it too.

Which wasn’t to say Stiles shared his bag-hoard of special biscuits and carrots. It just meant that Scott wasn’t bugging him for a bite every three seconds like he usually did.

In the center of their set-up was the game board, a variation on classic Monopoly with Lords of Legions landmarks taking the place of traditional property spaces. Boardwalk was now _Central City,_ and free parking was the gambling zone in the Galadesh peninsula. Derek and Stiles’ characters were as close to their actual avatars as they could get, with Stiles selecting a muscled, armor-clad warrior and Derek picking the lanky, black-clad paladin.

“I take it Stiles and Scott know about the Lords of Legions addiction, Der?” Erica drawled, sipping gingerly on her coke and rum. Erica was about as dressed down as Erica ever got, in a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a baggy, cream-coloured sweater. She plucked up an elegant druid piece and set it down on the ‘start’ space.

Derek grimaced. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Stiles grinned, clapping Derek’s shoulder while Boyd, Scott and Isaac selected their pieces. His head was spinning with liquor and uncharacteristic confidence. “Come on, big guy, nobody’s going to tell your _legions_ of adoring fans. That’s just cruel.”

Derek’s eyes flashed, but his mouth curled into a small smile. “As cruel as dumping wine over someone’s head?”

“Touché.”

Stiles snatched the dice and threw the first roll, warmth curling in the bottom of his stomach.

To the credit of drunk twenty-somethings everywhere, pretty much everyone played with some semblance of a strategy, though it wasn't always a good one.

Isaac was out first, though that was mostly because he kept dissolving into bubbly laughter about how ‘tiny’ the little houses were and didn’t pay any attention to making actual property deals.

Boyd went next, after making an obviously one-sided deal to give Erica the two spaces she wanted in order to complete her set.

Scott and Erica were the last two out, losing mostly to Stiles’ hotel-ed row of doom between the jail and the free parking spaces.

Which left Stiles and Derek.

“You’re going down!” Stiles declared, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright. It was almost midnight, and Stiles had lost count of how many drinks he’d had at ‘an irresponsible number.’ “I am going to kick your sorry, grumpy ass, sour wolf. All it’ll take is one shitty throw and I’m home free!”

Derek grinned, his face sweaty and glowing beneath the dim lights of the living room. He'd been sipping steadily on a glass of scotch the entire time, but his face was still lit up as much as anyone else's. Isaac and Scott were fiddling with the stereo in the corner, whispering in hushed, laughing tones about god knows what. Boyd and Erica were quietly cuddled up on the love seat, pointing at photographs in an album from the inside of Derek’s ottoman, occasionally laughing or murmuring soft things about their subjects.

Derek ran his long, dexterous fingers thoughtfully along his jaw, watching the dice roll round and round in Stiles’ palm with surprisingly alert eyes. “Don’t get too confident, Stiles. Pride comes before the fall.”

With a glare in Derek's general direction, Stiles bit his lip and threw the dice at the board with force. The relief was instantaneous. “Eight! I’m safe! Suck it!” He moved his piece past Derek's _Central City_ space to ‘luxury tax’ and tossed in a couple hundred to the center.

“Shit,” Derek murmured, eying his spot on the board with worried expectation.  His thick brows were furrowed in concentration. “I’m right in front of your god-awful 'row of doom.'”

Stiles stretched over the table and flicked Derek’s nose. Because…well, he couldn’t tell you why. He just did. He was pretty tipsy, he couldn't be held accountable for his actions. “Where’d that confidence go, Der-bear?”

Derek rolled his eyes and gingerly moved Stiles’ thin wrist back to his side of the board with one hand, rolling his dice with the other. “I’m telling you Stiles, you never know wha—“

Then his face fell and the colour drained from his cheeks. He threw his hands down on laminated wood of the table, glaring at the game with the kind of malice usually reserved for Liverpool players and the media. “Fuck!”

Stiles squealed with delight. “I win! Ha! Fuck You! You may have _fame_ and _abs_ and _money_ but I will always have this moment!” Stiles jumped up from his spot on the sofa and onto the table, kicking the empty bowls out of his way and throwing his fist in the air in triumph.“That’s right, Stiles is the winner, you plebeians. Bow before your king!”

Derek rolled his eyes and tugged a still-dancing Stiles down onto the chair, where he landed in Derek’s lap with an ‘oof!'

Stiles squeaked, and his head spun, Derek's seductive cologne filling his senses with the heady scent of the woods and moonlight.

All in all, Derek was surprisingly warm and comfortable for someone so muscular. It was a bit like falling asleep in a soft chair.  “Calm down, your highness. You’ll hurt yourself jumping around like that," Derek's deep voice boomed, and Stiles could  _feel_ his chest rumbling.

But, still drunk and dreadfully stupid, instead of moving like any sane person would, Stiles laughed and stretched out languidly on Derek’s legs, dipping his head back onto the arm of the chair and grinning lazily up at his host. His voice was slow and thick, like honey, when he finally met Derek's eyes. “Aw, Derek, you’re worried about my health and safety! That’s sweet.”

Maybe it was a trick of light, or maybe it was the alcohol, but Stiles could’ve sworn that Derek’s tan cheeks flushed bright pink. “Shut up, Stiles,” Derek muttered, then dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor and abruptly stood up from his chair. “I think it’s time for you to go get some sleep before you break my furniture or yourself.”

“Oww,” Stiles whined, _totally legitimately,_ then sat up and, with one last glare spared for a suddenly pissy Derek, beckoned to Scott with on outstretched finger. “Come on, best-mate-Scott-McCall. Derek is kicking us out.”

Scott gave Stiles the barest of glances, then threw one arm around Isaac’s shoulders and hugged him goodbye. They scooped Lou up from his spot next to Derek’s sink and toaster, collected Stiles’ canvas bag, and called goodnight to Erica and Boyd. Derek brusquely muttered ‘bye’ before sweeping off to his room and leaving the two of them to fumble out into the hallway with the kind of precision you could expect from two people as tipsy as they were.

“He’s being weird,” Stiles said quietly, hiking Lou back up his shoulder and turning the key in his door. It took him a couple tries before it clicked open.

Scott sighed, then slinked back into Stiles’ flat, already halfway to the bathroom and taking out his contacts. “He’s probably just tired, Stiles. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles answered softly, setting Lou in his cat bed and sparing one last look at Derek’s closed door. He felt his stomach sink.

“Tired.”


	8. Pub

⚽

**♪ Papercut ~ Zedd ft. Troye Sivan ♪**

⚽

* * *

Stiles had always loved the feeling in the air at a football game.

It was _electric_ ; everyone was sticky with sweat and old beer, cheering in unison, jostling strangers with back claps and high fives. There weren’t words to properly describe the way Stiles’ heart dropped between his feet whenever the whistle blew to review a play, the way his adrenaline spiked with every chance for Manchester to steal possession, the way the grass and the popcorn and the crowd all smelled like _home._

The closest Stiles could manage to get it was to say he loved the general feeling of it. All of it. Every drop, every morsel—it all seeped into his bones like water into a dry kitchen sponge. He could wax poetic about the color of the seats for hours, for chrissakes.

He was just abstract like that.

Anyway, just like he’d done when he was a kid, Stiles had spent most of his time this cold November game-day digging through deep bags of popcorn and sugared almonds, managing to occasionally shout encouragement at the team - with his mouth, and heart, bursting at the seams. The freshly roasted nuts made his stomach warm, even if the rest of him was frightfully cold.

Unlike when was a kid, though, Stiles had also spent a wholly inappropriate amount of time staring openly at a frankly top notch selection of arse sparsely populating the field.

Oops.  
  
Not the he could see it terribly well, mind you. Stiles and Scott had decided to come last minute (as always), grabbing nosebleed seats from a scalper in the car park with dubious morals and even more dubious hygiene.

And now here they were, sitting in a horde of shivering fans, both wrapped in Ms. McCall’s hand-knit, garishly bright old Christmas sweaters. A poof ball hat was tugged down over Stiles’ pink ears while Scott braved the ever-dropping, early November chill with surprising—read _insane—_ grace.

It was worth it, though. Derek, Boyd and Isaac were already having a phenomenal season, but this game was tops for sure. Chelsea hadn’t stood a chance against Derek’s quick footwork, Boyd’s tenacious defense, and Isaac’s valiant goalkeeping. The three of them kept the other team lagging behind the duration of the game, and Stiles was sure they’d be paying dividends in soreness and head-splitting migraines tomorrow.

By the final buzzer the crowd was worked into a veritable frenzy, their loud cheers punctuated by the bright peals of laughter and gravelly hollers that rang across the stadium with piercing clarity. Scott and Stiles shared a half-hug, Scott pumping his fist victoriously in the air and managing to knock his diet soda all over the ground when he stumbled just slightly to the side.

“Worth it,” Scott muttered to no one in particular, and Stiles couldn’t agree more.

Once the other team had been sufficiently ripped to pieces by the boasting crowd, and the drunk suburban dads had been carted off by shivering wives and significant others, Scott all but dragged Stiles down to the pitch, weaving through rows and rows of cold seats and tipping his head at the guard outside the locker room.

It wasn’t long after, Stiles and Scott leaning up against the doorway and turning to literal popsicles, that Isaac and Derek broke away from the pack and slipped out onto the field, content smiles already broken across their freshly scrubbed faces. The guard nodded a solemn greeting at the boys, but was otherwise still, his eyes trained up at the stands and the few still-lingering figures.

“Boys!” Isaac chirped, his grin widening when he noted their mortifying sweaters and matching thousand-watt smiles. Isaac’s caramel hair was a frozen mess, pushed haphazardly back by a white cloth headband. Both his and Derek’s ears were pink tipped, but neither of them seemed to have even considered hats. The fact that they had soft, wash-worn jumpers on was probably a miracle brought to you by Erica Reyes. Isaac stopped abruptly in front of him, rubbing his palms together. “Scott tells me there is a pub crawl to be had.”

Stiles’ brows disappeared into his hat. “You’re mistaken. We’re getting pizza. Delicious, hot, nonalcoholic pizza.”

Scott flushed, staring guiltily at the ground. He shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets. “Actually, Stiles…”

“Scott!” Stiles balked, slapping Scott’s arm indignantly. What had this friendship come _to_? There were _lines._ You didn't promise a man pizza if you didn't intend to  _deliver._  “Scott, _Scott_ , you did not. You did _not._ I’m still recovering from Monopoly night at Derek’s. I have a liver to look after! Not all of us have internal organs that take a beating as well as yours do!”

Stiles was not being shrill. He was _not._

Derek glanced at the two of him, cleared his throat, and scratched the back of his neck before he offered a sheepish smile. “I’m not drinking either, Stiles, we can just play pool or something. But Scott promised the guys we’d go out…so...”

If it was at all possible, Stiles’ brows spiked even higher.

Who had Scott promised?

Exactly how many people were at this secret meeting that Stiles was apparently not invited to? “The guys?”

At precisely that moment, in the overdone fashion known to referees and fans of football everywhere, four more players tumbled out of the locker room, a mess of sweaty jerseys under arms, rumpled hoodies and damp hair. Stiles recognized Boyd, but the other three were a mystery.

A very fit, very excitable mystery.

“Scott, how do you know the _entire fucking team?_ Is knowing literally everybody a talent uniquely reserved for you, or are you willing to share?” Stiles managed, somewhat tersely, his jaw somehow not yet slack.

How many fit men was he expected to stay decent around at this pub crawl? Two of them were _twins. Jesus Tap-dancing Christ_.

Scott gave Stiles a tentative smile that reminded Stiles of Scott’s many, many similarly charming—and dangerous—smiles over the years. “Stiles, this is Jackson, Aiden, and Ethan. Boys, this is my best mate, Stiles.”

The four of them paused next to Derek and Isaac, Boyd grinning and waving while the spiky-haired blonde gawked.

“The arsehole from the apartment next door?” He hissed, his strong jaw clenching with the _indignity_ of it all. He looked like he needed to have the stick surgically removed from his arse. Stiles would be the first to volunteer to perform the procedure, worse come to worst. “Why is this guy coming with us? He’ll scare people away with his hyperactive twitching; none of us will _ever_ get laid.”

“Jackson, shut up,” Derek muttered sourly, and though Jackson didn’t look happy about it, he did just that.

“Right, then,” Isaac twittered, his mouth breaking into another wide grin that bordered on manic. What did Isaac take that he was so goddamn happy, and where could Stiles get his lethargic, frozen hands on some? “To the pubs, fellas!”

# ❀

Somehow, Stiles and Derek really _did_ end up playing pool.

They’d stopped for their last establishment of the night at some shady bar downtown, where it was too dark and seedy for the guys to be recognized or properly photographed by any paparazzi.

While the rest of the group rowdily ground on the dance floor - sweaty, sexual, and partially clothed - the two of them were skulking in the corner, nursing two watery drinks, mild frowns, and a couple of pool sticks.

In all, it was mildly alarming that they’d gone from mortal enemies to casual acquaintances/commiseration buddies in all of three weeks. But Stiles took it in stride.

He gingerly took a sip from his warm beer, his first – and last – drink of the night, holding Derek’s gaze with one brow cocked in contest. He was here to win, he was out for blood, he was…having a surprisingly good time, actually.

Stiles’ cheeks were a pleasant pink, and the warm, sluggish air of the pub they’d landed in made him feel more like melted honey than an apex predator. His red flannel had slipped off one bone-y shoulder at least ten minutes ago, but he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. Instead he was leaning cockily up against the pool table with a predacious grin on his face. “Derek, this is just getting embarrassing. I’ve never seen a less impressive display of masculinity that the way you’re holding that pool stick.”

“You can’t intimidate me into missing this shot, Stiles,” Derek drawled, lining up his stick and…resolutely fucking it completely and thoroughly up. “Seeing as I would have missed it, regardless,” he finished, with a sigh that bordered on whiny.

“I’m not even trying to win, Derek!” Stiles declared brightly, his face beaming and triumphant as he lined up his next shot and easily sunk two balls into the worn, corner nets. “This is pretty appalling, dude. Who is the sportsman, here? I’m just the lanky nerd from next door and I’m wiping the floor with you.”

“This isn’t even a sport.” Derek growled, but his heart wasn’t in it, and he almost looked like he was smiling beneath the pressing shadows.

Somehow, in the dim, yellow lamp-light of the pub, rumpled in a worn-out grey hoodie with a touch of stubble splashed across his jaw, Derek seemed softer. Lighter. _Approachable_. The kind of person that Stiles wanted to spend time with, to trust and to be trusted by.

“This is an affront to sportskind,” Derek affirmed, mostly to himself, nodding curtly and glaring at the pool table and breaking Stiles from his contemplation.

Stiles felt a slow smile stretch across his face, his eyes shining with unusual mirth while he shook away the stray thoughts. “Derek, I’m beginning to think you’re letting me win,” he teased, his eyes crinkled at the corners. His glasses were long forgotten, buried deep in his front pocket.

Derek scoffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair and shaking his head just slightly. “No, it would appear I am genuinely this terrible. I fully expect the Mail to run a full page feature on it in next Monday’s edition.”

They took a few more shots at the balls that were still left, but it became increasingly apparent that Derek was, in fact, decidedly awful at pool. So they slid instead into a booth tucked auspiciously in the same corner as the pool table, a single candle flickering lazily in the center, talking casually and taking occasional moments to revel in how awful their friends were at dancing.

“This is some next level fuckery,” Stiles said, nudging Derek’s shoulder with his beer. “Look at Boyd, he looks like he can only move in straight lines. There’s no fluidity there at all. Mr. Roboto is supposed to be a song, not a dance strategy.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned lazily up against the back of the booth, his knees tucked in beside him. It was a surprisingly endearing visual. “Oh, yeah? Look at Scott. He hasn’t taken a break from the bunny hopping for a solid hour. Kid might be more at home in a pet store than a pub.”

Stiles groaned. “And Jackson…guy even _dances_ like a douchebag. He’s done a whole hell of a lot of pelvic thrusting and not much else.”

The two of them grinned, clinking their glasses together and swigging down the last of their drinks. “You think we should drag them home?” Derek finally asked, removing his arm from where it was pressed up against Stiles’. “They’re getting to a place where they might regret what they’re doing later.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said softly, leaning almost unconsciously into the warm breath tickling his neck. Derek was close, so, so _close_ , and god, he’d forgotten what human contact, real, _prolonged_ human contact, was like. Not brief bro-hugs with Scott, not claps on the back from his father, but bodies pressed against bodies, blood pulsing low and steady beneath his fingertips, just a hair's-length from his mouth.

God, he was so lonely.

Had been for a while, if he was being honest, which apparently he was. “Hey, Derek?” Stiles said, before he could stop himself, and the neediness in his tone was fucking embarrassing and obvious as hell. 

Derek turned a questioning gaze on him, motioning for him to continue.

“Do you still hate me?”

Derek snorted and rolled his eyes. “Stiles, I never hated you.”

Stiles' face must’ve given away the incredulity he felt so intensely, because Derek gave him a contemplative look before he sighed and turned his entire body in the booth. His entire face was soft; open and expressive in a way that seemed foreign, like maybe it even surprised Derek how at ease he felt in this cheesy pub next to some kid from the crappy apartment next to his.

Derek cleared his throat and continued without ceremony, voice gruff and honest. “I mean, I didn’t like you very much, if we're being truthful here - but I never hated you. To answer what I think you were getting at, I like you a whole lot better now than I did before. We’ve come to an understanding.”

Stiles turned away, drawing circles on the booth’s plastic seat. “An understanding?”

“We’re friends, I’d say.”

Stiles' head spun, meeting Derek’s intense stare. It was so _simple._ Derek had just _tossed_ it right out there, just like that. “Friends?”

Derek quirked a brow. “Do you disagree?”

Stiles felt the pit of his stomach hollow, a pleasant, roiling sensation filling the empty space. “Nah,” he tried, as nonchalantly as he could. But his face definitely betrayed the happiness that bubbled in his chest for all to see.

“Friends. Friends, I think I can do.”

# ❀

“Derek, I’m dying.”

Derek rolled his eyes, setting a glass of ginger ale and ice on the mahogany end-table beside the couch. “I told you, Stiles,” he grumbled, his heavy brows furrowed. He was wearing the same glasses he'd worn at Stiles' apartment, but even behind the thick black plastic Stiles could trace the stress line on his forehead with his eyes. “You’re not dying, you’re just hungover.”

Stiles drew the red tapestry quilt up to his chin and thrust out his lower lip. His nose felt like an overfilled balloon. “How was I supposed to know this would happen?”

Derek sighed, sitting gingerly on the edge of the cushion at Stiles’ feet. Socked feet. He was man, not beast. “You’re not new at this whole drinking thing. You should’ve stopped at the beer.”

“You don’t turn down a free long island iced tea, Derek!”

Derek pursed his lips, then, to Stiles’ absolute horror, rolled up the sleeves of his black Henley, leaned forward, and gently laid the back of his palm on Stiles’ forehead. He drew back slightly, like he’d been burned. “You’re warm,” he said, eyes just a little too wide.

Stiles snorted. “That would be my body heat, dude.”

Derek shook his head slightly, suddenly upright and striding off towards his bathroom. Stiles could just barely hear him yelling over the sound of his frantic digging through the sink cabinets. “No, Stiles. I don’t think you’re hungover. I think you’re getting sick.”

Stiles groaned. “This is why I don’t go outside! One night out and I have the plague.”

Derek reappeared from the hallway, toting a thermometer and some suspiciously old-looking cold medicine. “Not the plague,” Derek intoned, swabbing the thermometer with an alcohol prep pad and clicking the center button, “just a cold.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose, waving a hand. “Dude, I’m not using your thermometer. Gross.”

Derek quirked a brow. “Really? You can sleep in my apartment, you can drunkenly use my toothbrush, but you can’t use my thermometer?”

Stiles gasped, which turned quickly into a violent cough. “I used your toothbrush? Gnarly, Derek, why didn’t you  _stop me_?”

Derek grinned, filling the small cup on top of the DayQuil bottle with viscous, orange liquid and setting it on the table next to Stiles. “I’ll just get a new one. You, on the other hand, have to live with that information forever.” 

Stiles scrubbed his front teeth with the back of his hand, glaring at Derek's snide expression. “You’re awful. You better not have any weird diseases. I bet you gave me this stupid fucking cold, you prick.”

Derek snorted. “Colds don’t incubate in 6 hours, Stiles. You got yourself that cold by going outside without warm things. Now take your temperature or I’ll kick you out and you can deal with this on your own.”

“Fine.”

He snatched the offending device from Derek’s outstretched hand and held it beneath his tongue, tapping his foot against the cushion.

Derek slid it out from beneath his tongue at the beep, glancing down at the screen.  “101.6. Shit. That’s not good.”

Stiles curled deeper into the couch, tightening the hold of the blanket around his arms. “That would explain why your apartment’s freezing, then.”

Derek frowned, then shuffled off to grab extra blankets, another pillow, and a box of tissues. Before Stiles could blink, he was back, tossing a couple of hand-made afghans and the plushest throw pillow Stiles had ever seen haphazardly on top of him.

Stiles blinked blearily, then laughed. It was a scratchy sound. “Thanks, man.”

Derek cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “I’ll go make you a cup of tea and some soup. Don’t get up without calling me, you may get dizzy and hit your head.”

Stiles smiled and settled beneath his nest, absently listening the Derek’s heavy footfall and digging his head into the pillows.

He’d honestly forgotten what it was like to be looked after like this. Cared for. His dad tried, he really did, but nurture had never been his area. Responsible, sturdy John Stilinski was an amazing man, an amazing parent, but he’d never been like his mum. Never been one for homemade soup and hand-knit sweaters that scratched your skin but warmed your heart.

The hardest part was that he remembered what that sort of love felt like. What fresh cookies and gentle hugs and ruffled hair  _were_ like. And he’d missed it. So, so much. It left a hollow spot right where his mum used to be, stagnant and empty with no promises of ever being filled. He could point to it, if anyone ever bothered to ask. A hole, right between his heart and collarbone, the illusion of flesh and blood too real for anyone to see past unless Stiles told them it was there.

And every time Stiles was ill, or distraught, or tired, it was like the wound was being torn open anew. Most days he was too embarrassed to ask Scott to stay, so he suffered in quiet, pressing silence. And when he laid on his old red couch, miserable and melancholy, the absence of a reassuring hand, of a fretting set of steps, of soup and frowns and sounds, made it that much worse.

Except, he wasn’t alone.

Not this time.

Derek was fretting. Derek was shambling around the kitchen. Derek was swearing every so often when he slammed his hand in a cupboard door or sliced a carrot a little too close to his fingertips. Derek was there.

And Stiles, for the first time in years, felt like he could breathe again.

You know, if you looked past the mucus.

Maybe it was because, in an abstract way, he knew Derek understood. That night in his apartment hadn’t been a mistake. Derek had stayed because Derek felt those same things he did. The emotion in his eyes had been too raw to be anything other than grief, swimming at the surface like it was still new and red and pointed.

Derek knew loss, and Stiles wasn’t embarrassed anymore.

People who’d been through death, through hell and back, had a weird sort of empathy. A quiet understanding that transcended the words Stiles was too afraid to use. And suddenly, with that knowledge came comfort that Derek, of all people, could make him feel whole again. For short periods of time Derek was a putty in that space, a calming balm to a bleeding wound.

And Stiles was exhilarated.

And Stiles was afraid.

He’d never had a friendship like that. Scott had always been like a bandage, warm and sweeping, but never enough to stop the bleeding. Scott didn’t know grief the way he did, so Scott didn’t know where to look to patch the wound. Scott tried but…Scott didn’t always succeed.

But Derek, Derek was like a tourniquet. Sharp and brash and painful, but effective. Derek knew where to go. Derek knew where to look.

Derek knew pain.

“Stiles?”

Stiles jolted, rubbing a hand over his eyes and blinking up at the concerned face of one Derek Hale.

Derek swallowed, then set a mug and bowl on the coffee table beside Stiles, running his tongue over his teeth. “It’s chicken noodle. I thought cream of chicken might just make it harder to breathe. The tea is peppermint. I put a few sugars in, I know you like sweet things. Or, I assume you do, from the snacks you brought last time.”

Stiles felt a smile worming its way across his features, and he sat up carefully, holding himself steady with the arm of the sofa. “Thank you, Derek. That’s really thoughtful.”

Derek grinned. “No quips or anything? No, “of course I like sweet things, Derek, I’m not a fucking animal”? Wow, you really are sick.”

Stiles stuck his tongue out and threw one of the pillows at Derek’s head. “I rescind my thank you. You’re the worst human being this side of the Atlantic. I hope you slip on a sock.”

“Only this side?”

“Let’s not talk about some of the people that live in the Americas, we haven’t got all day.”

With another bright smile Stiles shifted his mound of blankets to the right half of the couch so Derek could sit beside him and switch on the T.V.

There was a footy game to watch, after all.

# ❀

**_From Scott McBitch; 2:16pm_ **

_Stiles? Stiles are you alright???_

**_From Scott McBitch; 2:24pm_ **

_I just woke up at Boyds house in_  
a gorilla costume and bedazzled  
flip flops

**_From Scott McBitch; 2:42pm_ **

_Plz answer me, I’m worried!!_

**_From Scott McBitch; 2:59pm_ **

_If you don’t answer me im calling_  
ur dad

“Stiles, answer your fucking phone, it’s shaking the table and I can’t hear the game.”

Stiles ‘hmmphed’ and managed to grab his phone without moving out from beneath his layer of blankets. He scrolled quickly through the text messages, frowning deeper and deeper with every plea. The only saving grace was that Scott had sent a picture of the costume, and the look on his face was absolute gold. “Derek, where did the others go last night?”

Derek finally paused the game, sighing. “They went to Boyd’s. I only had room for one of you leeches on my couch.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He'd run out of tissues half an hour ago, and the toilet paper was too scratchy for his rubbed-raw nose. “You could’ve dumped me in my apartment. I live right there.”

Derek shook his head, refusing to meet Stiles’ eyes. “It wouldn’t have been safe to leave you alone. You were drunk, you could’ve hurt yourself.”

“Why me, then? I’d be just as safe there. Don’t you usually look after Isaac?”

Derek flushed and scowled. “I was just worried, Stiles, can’t you let it go?”

He blinked, then looked mournfully down at his open messaging app. “Yeah, okay,” he answered softly. He was too tired for this. Too tired for tension and conflict. It didn’t matter, anyway. What was he looking for from Derek, anyhow? Just because he felt that weird grief connection didn’t mean Derek had any obligation to be his new best friend.

In the grand scheme of things, it was amazing that Derek spoke to him at all.

Stiles was nobody. Stiles was a twenty-four year old gamer with no future to speak of and more hair than sense. He was sitting on the couch of a famous, talented, driven, intelligent  _athlete._ He had no right to be here, let alone question his decisions.

Maybe he’d been a dick all along.

He deserved the shit he got.

“Stiles, stop looking like you want to cliff-dive out my window,” Derek piped in, sounding resigned. Stiles flinched. “I’m not trying to hide things from you, I just don’t have an answer. I did what I felt was right, okay? There isn’t a bigger meaning behind everything someone does. You need to stop assuming the world is conspiring against you. The vast majority of the time, they’re not.”

“That’s not what I was worried about at all,” Stiles lied, tucking his feet up beneath his butt and shivering into the blankets. “I was just curious. I’m not some pissbaby that can’t handle the world. I just always have questions. It’s been a consistent black mark on every report card I’ve ever gotten.”

Derek shook his head and checked his silver-plated watch. “Look, I’m going to go make some more tea. Why don’t you call Scott so he can stop freaking out?”

Stiles whipped his head around, and his brain almost throbbed out of his skull. “How did you know it was Scott?”

Derek offered him a look of disbelief. “Who else would it be, Stiles? He’s practically glued to you.”

With that Derek headed back towards the kitchen, and Stiles allowed himself a momentary frown before he dialed Scott’s number.

_“STILES! Oh my fucking god, dude, don’t you ever do that to me again. Last thing I know you’re at Derek’s apartment, and now you won’t answer your phone? I figured you were dead or abducted.”_

Stiles laughed. “Scott, I’m not some damsel in distress. And Derek’s not going to murder me. You don’t shit where you eat, he lives too close.”

_“Dude, don’t talk about it. Your walls are super thin. He can probably hear you.”_

Stiles tossed a glance over his shoulder, gnawing his lip. “Well, actually…I’m still over here. He’s making some tea right now.”

_“What? Stiles, do NOT tell me the two of you…”_

Stiles flushed. “No, Scott! God, standards. Stop assuming I’m having sex with everyone. But I do have a fever, so he’s looking after me.”

_“You’re sick? Do you need me to come over with my mom?”_

Stiles cracked a grin. Mrs. McCall in Derek’s apartment? There’s an image he never thought his mind would conjure. “Nah, it’s alright. He’s actually been pretty nice about it. He made me soup and everything. We’re watching the Liverpool match.”

_“I don’t know what’s scarier, the thought of Derek in an apron of the idea of watching a Liverpool match with a ManU player.”_

Stiles heard glass shatter and a string of curses from the kitchen. “He’s so fucking clumsy, oh my god. What kind of athlete…this is like, the third dish he’d broken today, Scott. It’s absurd.”

 _“Careful,”_ Scott teased.  _“Once you start talking dishes it’s only a short trip to domestic bliss.”_

Stiles looked nervously over at Derek’s still sunken spot on the sofa, just millimeters from where his feet were now tucked in the crack of the cushions. “Whatever, Scott, I’ll be sixty by the time I bother to settle down. I’m not concerned about it. Besides, we co-own like, four mugs and we’ve yet to fall in love. I think I’m safe.”

 _“Whatever you say, bro.”_ Scott coughed into the receiver, then groaned.  _“I need to go wash this glitter off and find my pants. Thanks for finally letting me know you’re alive.”_

“Anytime. Or, you know, an hour later.”

They hung up, and a few seconds later, with strangely impeccable timing, Derek arrived back with two worn looking mugs full of something that smelled amazing. “Black tea this time,” he said, handing Stiles the larger mug. “We’re going to need caffeine if we want to make it through a Liverpool match without cracking our own skulls open.”

“Did you put something different in this?” Stiles moaned, his mouth filling with something that tasted like home.

“It’s a secret,” Derek answered, so seriously that Stiles momentarily found him a totally convincing Blockbuster baddie. “You’ll have to come watch these games with me if you want to have it.”

Stiles choked on his tea. “Are you bribing me into hanging out at your apartment?”

Derek sipped innocently on his drink. “I’m not making offers or threats. I’m simply saying that if you want to have my tea, you have to have it here. That’s all there is to it.”

Stiles smirked softly into his cup, the warm steam clearing his nose. “Can I order to go cups? What’s the policy about that?”

Derek seemed to be suppressing a smile. “You can…” Stiles raised his eyebrows. “On the condition that you’re sitting in my box when you drink them.”

He choked. Again. “Derek, are you insane? Don’t you have someone you, I don’t know…actually like to give those seats to?”

Derek smiled sadly. “All my friends and family, other than you and Scott, are either on the team or too far away. It gets lonely, Stiles. I’d love it if you came and watched the games. Even if you make sarcastic commentary about my form the entire time. It’s not like I can hear it.”

Stiles jaw fell open, just a fraction, before his entire face split into a blinding grin. Fever? What fever. He was radiating  _joy._  “Dude, are you kidding? I’d absolutely love to! That’s so kick ass! Do you know how jealous literally every person I know is going to be? I have a  _box._ I’m, like, famous by association." The thought drove a flash of panic through him, but he squished it at the source. It had been so  _long,_ no one would remember that. Not now. He forced a smile back on his face. "Do you think they’ll write articles about me? “Who is Derek Hale’s handsome new friend? The Hottie Lighting Up the Captain’s Box’…I can see it now. Goodbye, wine story, hello eligible bachelor angle!”

Derek laughed. “The staff will get a kick out of you. Just please make sure you dress  _warmly_. If I’d had practice today you’d have just suffered in sickly silence.”

“’Course, Derek.” Stiles beamed. He took another sip of his tea.  
  
“I’ll just bring one of your afghans.”


	9. Visitor

⚽

 **♪ Magnets ~ Disclosure ft. Lorde**   **♪**

⚽

* * *

“Derek, you don’t put  _vegetables_ in eggs. Eggs are meant for meat and shame. At this point you might as well just be gardening.”

Derek sighed, flipping Stiles’ hood up over his head with his free hand and nudging him gently away from the stove with his elbow. “Stiles, if you really want breakfast, please just go sit down. I can’t cook and babysit you at the same time. I’m just a simple man.”

Stiles shuffled over to the table, plopping down in one of the cold wooden chairs. “If I recall correctly,  _you’re_  the one that wanted company for breakfast. I was peacefully sitting in my apartment, minding my own business, when you s _tormed over…”_

Derek rolled his eyes, giving Stiles a look from over his shoulder. He really wasn’t very intimidating like this, sleep soft and rumpled in a black sweater and grey sweats. For once in his life he wasn’t barefoot, wearing a pair of woolen socks and some plaid slippers. “Stiles, you were shouting at your computer and whining over guild chat that you didn’t have any food in your fridge. I’m trying not to let you starve. Your father would mount my head on a spike if you died.”

Stiles shrugged. “You could’ve muted me. This is on you.”

Derek groaned. “Stiles, I’m not…”

Before he could finish, the door to Derek’s apartment suddenly flew open, the sound of wood on wood ricocheting across the entire flat in a way that made Stiles wish he’d either brought diapers or spare pants. “ _Derek!”_

Derek, to his credit, managed not to knock their pan of eggs over when he jumped about a foot in the air and dropped his spatula onto the cold tile floor. “Jesus Ch— _Laura!_  Could you fucking  _knock_ or  _call_ or something next time? Are you  _mental?_ ”

Stiles finally found it within himself to stop clutching his knees and breathing deeply into his hoodie like a paper bag, glancing up at the woman grinning maniacally in the doorway.

The woman –Laura— had long, dark hair, sweeping past her shoulders and down to the small of her back. She was taller than Derek, at least in those devastating red heels, and wore a tight black dress that could topple dynasties. Over one shoulder was a duffle bag that must’ve weighed a tonne, over the other a Michael Kors purse that was bigger than his torso.

But her shoulders were straight and level, just like the gaze she’d suddenly focused on Stiles.

“Derek,” she drawled, and her dark lips curled into a smile that made Stiles want to die. “I didn’t know you had a…friend.”

Stiles whipped around to look at Derek, who had never looked quite so bloody well terrified. His eyes were wide and disbelieving, one of his hands clutching the countertop behind him. What was his issue? The eggs were probably burning by now. “Um.”

Stiles scoffed, his heart still racing. “Eloquent, Derek.”

Laura smirked, dropping her bag to the floor and stepping towards them. “He speaks! What’s your name? Since my kid brother has obviously lost the ability to speak in coherent sentences.”

Stiles swallowed as she slipped into the seat beside him, crossing her long, tan legs and propping her face up in her hands. “Yeah, uh, hi. I’m Stiles. I live next door. We were just having breakfast together, because I refuse to grocery shop on weekends. There are elderly people there and they terrify me. And, uh, who are you?”

She delicately extended a hand, neatly manicured and adorned in heavy rings. “I’m Laura, Derek’s sister. I take it he hasn’t mentioned me?”

Stiles cleared his throat. “Not really, but don’t take it personally. Derek doesn’t talk very much. And we only stopped hating each other about two weeks ago, so…you know. Not a lot of time to map out our respective family trees.”

Laura let out a loud, short bark of laughter that reminded Stiles eerily of Derek. She hung her bag delicately on the back of the chair, pulling a clip from somewhere inside and twisting her hair up atop her head. “I like him, Der-bear. He’s cute. Quick, too. About time I found a smart one in your kitchen.”

Stiles folded the sleeves of Mrs. McCall’s hooded jumper up his arms, then crossed them across his torso. “How many people  _have_ you found in his kitchen, exactly?”

Derek coughed loudly, looking pointedly between the two of them. “Right, that’s enough of that. Laura, why don’t you take your bags into the guest room? I’ll make a couple extra pieces of toast, if you want to eat.”

Laura gracefully rose from her chair, striding back over to the door to grab her duffle bag. She sent a wink over her shoulder. “Behave while I’m gone, boys. I’ll be right back.

Derek swooped over to where Stiles was sitting and deposited a plate of eggs and toast on the table to the soundtrack of Laura’s rhythmically clicking heels. “Sorry about her.”

Stiles cleared his throat and grabbed the edge of Derek’s sleeve as he turned to leave, raising a brow.

He blinked down at Stiles, then recognition flashed across his handsome features. “Oh, right, you’re probably confused.”

“To put it lightly.”

Derek sighed and sat gingerly down in the chair beside him. “Laura’s my oldest sister. She’s a model in New York, but she likes to come back here spontaneously and harass me for a couple of days. It’s usually around this time of year, just before the holidays. She can’t come during Christmas, though – she has a family back in the States.”

Stiles took a bite of the eggs. They were just slightly overcooked. Great, now his tongue tasted like smoke and plants. “Oldest sister?”

Derek jumped, wringing his hands together. “Cora was the youngest – she’s not…uh – _with_  us, anymore.”

Stiles choked. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Was that why? The – the other night?”

Derek bunched the fabric of his pants in his long fingers, resolutely refusing to look Stiles in the eyes. “Cora, and – and my parents. There was a fire, a long time ago. My entire family, except for me and Laura…”

Stiles dropped his fork into his lap, hastily trying to pick the crumbles of egg from his sweats. “Christ, Derek, you don’t have to talk about this. I was prying – I’m sorry, this isn’t any of my business.”

That look was back. The pain that played across Derek’s face like the pieces of a shattered record. Small expressions, broken and scattered, a downturn of his lips, a lowering of his eyelids. It was so oddly natural. Comfortable in the way that old feelings were, common and terrible.

“I want to talk about it, sometimes.” Derek said, then curled even further in on himself. He was so small, just then, the absolute opposite of his imposing, confident silhouette on the pitch. “Just to remember them.”

Stiles moved to say something, anything, but his stupid fucking hyperactive brain, always make, make, making connections, the red yarn of his neuron twisting and tying, being proactive, chose that moment to make a connection for him.

He blurted it out stupidly before he could stop himself. “Wait, you and Laura, you’re the Hales. The Hale fire!”

Derek visibly winced. “Yeah, that’s us.”

Stiles drew in a shaky, raspy breath. His heart was going a million miles a minute, galloping through his chest like a spooked horse down a midnight road. “Derek, my dad was the lead prosecutor on your case. I’d never thought…it’s such a common last name, and my dad never  _would_ say your first names, being minors at the time and all…”

Stiles felt his entire foundation shake, like an earthquake had built and built for decades and just now torn through his very core. “Derek, my dad was just talking to me this weekend, he hadn’t contacted you yet, but…but…”

Derek froze, his head suddenly whipping up, gaze zeroing in on Stiles’ hesitant expression. “But what, Stiles?”

Stiles felt the cold tendrils of something a whole lot like fear curl through his gut. He swallowed.

“Kate won her appeal last week. They’re retrying the entire case.”

# ❀

Apparently world-shattering revelations made Derek more clingy than usual.

Which was saying something, since he’d practically dragged Stiles over kicking and screaming to his apartment for breakfast this morning.

So there he and Laura were, watching practice. Again. Guilted into sitting in the freezing fall air by something adorably close to a Derek pouty face, even though Stiles had promised himself he’d spend the day raiding with Danny and Lydia.

He was going to have to start paying rent if he wanted to keep living in these goddamn plastic chairs.

At least this time Derek had been kind enough to lend him a sweater that wasn’t made by a thoughtful, but less than crafty, Mrs. McCall. He owned precisely two: the cranberry crew-neck that had been savaged by his impromptu game with the boys nearly a month and a half ago, and the orange monstrosity that he’d worn out the pub and Derek’s apartment.

This snuggly black Derek jumper was a marked improvement over either.

“They’re doing well,” Laura finally said, after nearly twelve minutes of absolute silence. “I haven’t gotten to see him play in ages. He’s looking better. Happier.”

Stiles watched Derek’s hard expression as he drove the ball down the pitch. This close he could make out every detail – the wrinkle in his forehead when he concentrated, the bead of sweat nearly frozen to his cheek, the small patch of stubble just beneath his chin that he’d missed in his haste to shave before practice.

Stiles cleared his throat, shoving his gloved hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t know if happy is the word I’d use.”

Laura turned her heavily charcoaled eyes to him. “This is happy. Trust me.” She pulled an elastic from her wrist, twisting her hair up into a haphazard ponytail and tugging her loose black cardigan back down over her wrists. “Last time I came in he didn’t even remember to eat before practice. To walk in on him actively making breakfast was a nice change of pace.”

Stiles shoved his silver glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I thought I wasn’t the first kitchen guest you’d met?”

Laura’s lips curled into a cheeky smile. “You’re the first one who intended to stay for eggs.”

Stiles’ cheeks went pink and he frowned. “Why do I get the feeling you’re reading way more into this than you should be?”

Laura snorted. “Stiles, I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t read into this. You’re in his  _jumper.”_

“He ruined my other one!”

Laura smirked. “He was making you breakfast.”

“I was out of food, I told you that! He wanted to shut me up. I’m notoriously whiny when I haven’t eaten yet.”

Laura examined her manicure, feigning disinterest. To be fair, her nails  _were_  flawless. “He gave you back freshly laundered clothing. Folded.”

Stiles scowled. “Look, I know it looks…weird. But believe me, we’re friends. That’s all. We hated each other for ages beforehand. These… _things_ are just a function of us being neighbors. He washed my pyjamas because he helped take care of me when I was really ill a few days back. Nothing weird is going on with your  _brother,_ Laura. Let it go.”

Laura shrugged, stealing a glance at her phone. “Whatever you say, Stiles. I’m not going to force the two of you to recognize it, but give it time. You’ll figure it out.”

Stiles groaned. “You and Erica must get along swimmingly, I swear to God.”

As if to accentuate a point, Laura popped her gum. “What, do strong women scare you?”

Stiles finally tore his eyes away from Derek long enough to glare at his pain-in-the-ass of a sister. “Man or woman, your entire family and their friends absolutely terrify me.”

She grinned. “That just means we’re doing our job. Boring people make for terrible company, no?”

“There’s something refreshing about simple things, Laura.” Stiles propped his boots up on the chair in front of his, his eyes trained back on the field. He suddenly and inexplicably wished he had a martini in his hand and a cigarette on his lips.

That was probably just his inner Gatsby talking.

He’d have to try a pool later.

“I mean, there’s something beautiful about being ordinary, don’t you think? Don’t you ever wonder how things would be if no one knew your name? If no one knew your face? You’re a model in New York, that has to have its drawbacks.”

Laura did, in fact, take out a cigarette, lighting it was a flourish.

Stiles gave her a look and Laura averted her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ve been trying to quit for Hannah’s sake, but it’s going about as well as you’d expect.” She took a drag. “What do you know about being famous? One picture on the front of the Daily Mail and you’re waxing poetic about simplicity?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

Laura blinked, taking another long, considered pull. “Tell me what?”

“We’ve never met, but,” Stiles pulled his hands from his pockets, gesturing to himself with a flourish. “My dad was the lead prosecuting attorney on the Katherine Argent case.”

Laura dropped her cigarette to the pavement, her eyes dazed and uncomprehending. She blinked and quickly stamped it out before it could accidentally light her empty popcorn box, turning away to compose herself. “Stilinski,” she whispered. “Your last name is Stilinski. Polish, not very common. I don’t know how I’d forgotten.”

“Apparently Derek knew the second he met my dad. Wanker could’ve said something.” Stiles wiped his nose, his eyes still religiously following the team’s lazy back and forth. “As a kid, the paparazzi were relentless. You two were off limits, in the protective custody of police, but I wasn’t. The child of the prosecuting attorney on a case this big – a case where  _children_  were the focus – my safety was in constant question.

“After they let Kate out to await trial, I was under nearly perpetual guard. I couldn’t leave the house. I don’t know who was more dangerous, Kate or the photographers.” Stiles licked his dry lips. “So yes, Laura. I know fame. And that’s all I care to know of it. I live in fear of becoming relevant again. It was the worst year and a half of my life.”

“Stiles, I didn’t know—“ she met his eyes. “When Derek said she was getting back out, I never imagined you were the one who told him.”

“I’m a little smarter than I look, Laura.” He cracked a grin. “Don’t let the hyperactivity fool you. Though I am pretty pissed Derek and my dad both felt it necessary to keep me out of the loop.”

Laura lit up another cigarette. “Is that why the two of you were fighting before we left?”

Stiles’ eyes flashed. “Oh, that was only the beginning.” He sent Derek a raised brow between plays, and Derek looked down sheepishly at his feet. “He’s got a lot to own up to. But it looks like we’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.”

Laura cocked her head in question.

Stiles leaned forward, slipping his feet off the seat and resting his elbows on his knees. He could practically feel the small notebook he’d slipped into his jacket pocket vibrating, ready for the moment him and Derek stole away into his father’s office, tense whispers and dark jackets.

It was hard to stay mad at Derek when Stiles finally felt like he had a purpose.

He rolled his shoulders and beamed. “Starting tonight, we get to figure out how to get Kate Argent back in prison.”

# ❀

Stiles would’ve liked to say it was the first time he’d woken up to a startled, disapproving gasp from a woman he hadn't known was there.

But it wasn’t and he wasn’t in the business of lying.

At least, not lately.

So.

“Stiles Stilinski, just what do you think you’re doing?!” A croaking, angry voice hissed.

Stiles felt every hair on the surface of his pale, freckly skin prickle. He groaned and rubbed a numb hand over his eyes, cautiously cracking one open.

Staring directly into his very soul was the deeply narrowed gaze of one Mrs. Lanningham – his father’s elderly secretary, and resident rule-enforcer in his stead. Her thick, grey brows were furrowed deeper than he'd ever seen them, pressing tightly against the frames of some cat-eye glasses that screamed _'I haven't been to the optometrist since the age of flowered wallpaper'_

“I can explain,” he murmured, more out of habit than anything else.

It was perhaps the most popular phrase in his repertoire.

Or, it had been since his mom died, and rule-breaking became less faux-pas and more "to be expected."

He turned his sore neck side to side, pointedly ignoring a still snoozing Derek, who was draped over an adjacent chair and Stiles’ right leg like a limp octopus. His dark hair was fluffed every which way, stubbly face was buried deep in the emerald green cushion while he snored softly. He looked sweeter like that, sleepy and vulnerable in a way that Derek never was when he was awake, when his face was all hard angles and scowling frustration.

Stiles wriggled his right foot out from beneath Derek's lower back, moving it up to where his left was already propped on his pleasantly warm thigh.

At least he could feel his toes again.

“But you probably won’t like it, anyway,” he finished, after a long – and decidedly awkward – pause. For once, he truly hadn't paused for effect. His brain was still rebooting after a long night of legal-ese and questionable Indian food, the stress of burying himself in the details of a case he'd long since relegated to the periphery of his alarmingly scattered memory shepherding a fog over him that he'd thought the Adderall had shooed away an age and a half ago.

“I swear, Mr. Stilinski, if you’re here to look into the Hale case  _again…_ ” She scrunched her nose, then looked down at Derek with something like exasperation. “…is this Mr. Hale right here? Drooling on your father’s very expensive, very difficult-to-clean armchair?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Doris. You really should expect this sort of behavior from me by now.”

She let out a huff. “I don’t want you to say anything! I want you to pick up your mess and get out of here before your father gets to work. You know he doesn’t focus the whole day if he’s worried about whatever you’re up to, and the Lachler case needs his full attention right now." She held up an enormous manila folder for emphasis. "They just found another body, and he's already in custody, so that's an all-nighter waiting to happen. I won’t say anything,  _again,_  just…don’t let me find you next time. All of this stress is making my gout act up. I’m spending a fortune at the pharmacy and your father doesn’t pay me enough to keep going to my podiatrist.”

Stiles smiled slightly, despite himself. He felt Derek stirring beside him. “You’re my rock star, Doris. I’ll send you those lemon crème cupcakes you like so much this weekend.”

She fixed the edge of her red patterned blouse and smiled back. “You best do that. But don’t you think you’re buying my silence – I cannot be bought, Mr. Stilinski. Now shoo!” Without another word, she shuffled from the room and back to her spot at the front of the office.

Stiles kicked Derek’s thigh with a socked foot. “Derek, get up, we’ve gotta neaten up before my father gets here or Doris is going to need a foot amputated. I’m responsible for at least half of her foot cream consumption, and she keeps a running tab that I can only pay in expensive vegan cupcakes.”

Derek groaned, his whole body rumbling with displeasure. It vibrated Stiles' foot, and it took everything he had not to giggle.  “Why can she only be paid in vegan cupcakes?”

“She’s lactose intolerant and allergic to gluten.”

Derek’s eyes cracked open, his lashes low to his cheeks. Even through his sleepy gaze, Stiles could see those green irises sparkling with amusement. “That really wasn’t the crux of my question, but alright, then.” He stretched, arching his back and rubbing absentmindedly at his neck. Stiles resolutely ignored the strip of tan abdomen that peeked out wantonly from beneath his grey Henley, just a couple inches from his curled toes. “What do we need to do before we leave, exactly?”

Stiles moved his ankles from atop Derek’s thighs, where they were resting quite comfortably, and pulled his lanky body up into the nicely upholstered chair behind him. "Well," he started, then took a quick inventory of his father’s elegant office, a spacious room filled with tall, hand-carved and absurdly handsome bookshelves and one of those cliché green lamps that psychiatrists always had, noting where things had gone awry.

Derek and Stiles were smack dab in the center, openly lying in a pile of law books and case files labelled “HALE” in big, block letters. They’d spent a long, arduous evening rehashing the entire Hale case from the beginning, neck deep in impractically specific terminology and bad memories. “We need to put the books back on the shelves, shut off the electric fireplace, reorganize the folders, clean up the Indian food we ordered at 2am…”

Derek eyed him skeptically, now entirely on the floor and nuzzling his scruffy face into the plush royal purple of his father’s rug. “That  _you_ ordered at 2am, not me. I have self-control and self-respect, Stiles. Unlike some, who will remain nameless.”

Stiles began stacking the manila folders strewn haphazardly across the rug in his lap, while Derek got hesitantly to his feet and re-shelved some of the heaviest books on the bottom shelf. “Don’t even pretend you weren’t super bloody hype for Indian food, you stupid tit. Mr.  _Wait-wait-wait, get some Chicken Tikka!_ over here trying to play it calm, cool and collected. I’ve never seen you more excited than when the delivery boy got here.”

Derek scowled, collecting six paper cups from various spots on the floor. “You’re just cranky because they forgot the rice for your curry.”

Stiles threw his hands up, knocking one of the folders onto the ground and sending half a dozen pieces of paper flying across the room. “The rice is half of the curry experience! How do you forget half of your dish? If I pay for a delicious styrofoam container of Basmati rice, I expected a delicious styrofoam container of Basmati rice.”

Derek rolled his eyes while Stiles scrambled to get his scattered papers. “Stiles, I gave you more than half of my rice, you weren’t exactly suffering.”

Stiles grumbled and plopped back into the chair. “It’s the principle of the thing, Derek. I ordered a dish with rice, and I received a dish of sin.”

Derek sighed and managed to squish the last book into the shelf with only minimal huffing. He reached over with the hand not holding a teetering stack of cups and clicked off the electric fireplace. “C’mon, you grump,” he murmured, letting out a small yawn and looking at Stiles. “If you stop your bitching, I’ll treat you to breakfast.”

# ❀

“People are staring.”

Derek shrugged, fishing in his pocket for his cellphone. “I don’t think they recognize us, I think we just look suspicious in a more general way.”

Stiles dropped his head to the red plastic table, flipping absently through the diner’s laminated – and worryingly sticky – menu. “Awesome. I’ve graduated from “casual freak” to “total creeper” in the course of an evening. Father will be so proud.”

Derek didn’t look up, tapping away mindlessly on his phone. “Please remove the stick from your arse and pick something to eat before the waitress gets back. I’m starving and I refuse to wait until you’re done with your histrionics to eat.”

“Git,” Stiles muttered, flicking the menu closed with two fingers and staring moodily at Derek’s hairy arms. Knowing Derek, his sleeves were probably just pushed up exclusively to make Stiles’ forearms feel scrawny and inadequate. “They’re not histrionics if they’re justified. Not that you’d know, seeing as yours never are.”

“You ready to order, boys?” A cheerful, borderline banshee-like voice asked from somewhere to Stiles’ left.

Stiles grimaced. “Chocolate chip pancakes, please,” he said, nudging his menu toward the girl with his elbow. “Fake syrup would be bloody fantastic, if you have it. If not, I’ll deal with the glorified tree piss you people dare to call its forefather.”

The girl giggled and looked at Derek. “And for you, sir?”

“Blueberry oatmeal, please. And a piece of whole wheat toast. No butter.”

Stiles turned just in time to see the twenty-something, short-haired waitress to take their menus. One looked at his rumpled face was all it took. “Coffee?” she asked, with a sympathetic glance. Her nose was small and round, with a rainbow ring through the septum.

“Yes,” they breathed in suspicious unison, and the girl walked away with a knowing smile.

“What’s got you pissy all of the sudden?” Derek asked, unrolling his napkin and lining his silverware up carefully, side by side, on the table. “You were fine last night, now suddenly you’re on edge.”

Stiles sniffed and picked at the edge of his jumper sleeve. “The longer I go without coffee, the pissier I get. I’m tired, I need sustenance, not your judgement.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek said, with something that sounded dangerously close to fondness. His worn and weary face curled into a gentle smile. He looked up at Stiles through thick lashes, then back toward the counter. “Here she comes with your sustenance, your highness.”

The waitress set their coffee down delicately on the table, two pastel blue, thick mugs with teaspoons. Stiles took the fuller cup with a groan, filling it immediately with three savagely torn sugar packets and creamer. “Derek, I don’t appreciate the sarcasm. Either refer to me as royalty earnestly or not at all.”

Derek snorted while Stiles took a sip and groaned. “Fuck, that’s good. You may speak now, peasant.”

Derek took a sip of his black, like a goddamn barbarian. “I was under the impression that I already was, my liege.”

“Tosser.” Stiles wiped a drop coffee from his chin, his fingers raw with the burn of barely-there stubble. He looked pointedly at Derek’s hands, picking at the edges of wrappers, nervous and twitchy without the distraction of his sleek phone. “How are you feeling, by the way? Last night was, uh…intense, to be really bitingly honest. It’s probably not easy to relive that.”

Derek shrugged, fiddling with the edge of one of Stiles’ empty creamer cups. “Of course it’s hard I’m not…I…” Derek took a deep breath. “Contrary to what the media seem to think, I’m not completely emotionless. But it’s been a long time, now, and I’m very rarely…overwhelmed by it anymore. I’m alright.” He looked up. “You?”

Stiles nearly choked on his coffee. “Me?”

Derek nodded. “Look, I know it was a hard time on you, too. I’m not completely socially constipated.”

Stiles blinked. “I’m – surprisingly okay? Cranky, yeah. I always am in the morning. But I haven’t felt overcome, which is new.” He met Derek’s eyes with barely restrained mirth. “Huh, looks like you’re good for something after all.”

Derek’s grinned wolfishly. “And what would that be?”

Stiles grinned back. “Shutting me up.”

# ❀

“Well, well, well, look who finally decided to come home. Wild night last night, you two?”

Derek rolled his eyes, shutting the door gently behind them. He slipped out of his garishly expensive boat shoes and dumped his duffle bag (grabbed by Derek’s driver on the way home from a disgustingly delicious diner breakfast) next to the doorway. “Give it a rest, Laura. We fell asleep trying to piece together how on earth Kate’s appeal managed to be accepted by an otherwise sane justice system. It was, understandably, as baffling as it was boring. Sleep was inevitable and well-deserved.”

Laura snorted from her spot in Derek’s plush white armchair, setting her half-read book down on the arm. Her slender legs were crisscrossed on the cushion, covered with a lump of pleased and purring orange cat. “Well, next time you lovers decide to take a retreat, please remember that this animal does not bode well on its own. You best find a hotel with a generous pet policy before the honeymoon.”

Stiles’ face fell, and he quickly tossed his and Derek’s styrofoam container of leftovers on the countertop. “Lou! Oh my god, how could I have forgotten? He doesn’t even like me gone past  _ten…”_

With almost comically precise timing, the moment Stiles’ voice echoed through Derek’s spacious living room, Lou’s ears were twitching as he blearily opened his eyes and let out a tragic mewl. Stiles could hear his indignant agony as clear as any words.

“ _Lou,_ can you ever, ever forgive me?” He squawked, darting over to Laura to drag Lou into a tight embrace. He smothered him in an unrelenting hug, while Lou buried his face in Stiles’ neck.

Then, Stiles froze. “Wait, Laura, how did you get into my apartment to get him and his things?”

Laura yawned, reaching for her tea – a white, flowered mug on Derek’s glass side table – and taking an elegant sip. “Lock picking is a lost art best learned at an all-girls boarding school, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Are you serious?”

She gave him a mischievous smile, unfolding her slender legs and slipping her socked feet into a pair of black fleece slippers. At least one Hale sibling understood the necessity of socks. “As a Liverpool game. Now, would anyone like to fill me in on all the dirty details? Or am I going to have to let the press know so they can spin me a worthy story?”

Derek, quarantined in the kitchen to wash Laura’s surprisingly large number of dirtied dishes, sighed. “All we’ve learned so far is that some wealthy benefactor or another financed a London-based lawyer to take up her case. The details are blurry.”

Derek finished rinsing Laura’s mess of cups and bowls, lining them up in the white plastic dish rack before he slipped their leftovers in the fridge. “But we’ll get there. Her case isn’t due to be heard for another two months, at the very least. Assuming it isn’t postponed. I’m sure Stiles’ dad will get much more information the closer the date gets.”

Laura’s voice was gentle very suddenly. “Derek, do you need me to call Adam? I can get my ticket switched. I can stay here until her hearing in January, just say the word…”

Derek suddenly looked at Stiles, who was still standing stupidly in the middle of his living room with his moron of a cat purring loudly into his shoulder. “No, I’ll be alright. You have a family, Laura. You should be with them. I know Hannah misses you something crazy when you’re gone."

“Alright,” Laura agreed, hesitantly. Derek turned to put on the kettle, and she looked over her shoulder at Stiles.  _Take care of him,_ she mouthed.

Stiles gave a small nod, his eyes boring into Derek’s back from across the room.

“Now, now, now, gentleman,” Laura announced, folding down the page of her paperback before tossing it onto the coffee table. She rose, placing a hand on her delicate hip. “Just what are we going to do with the rest of our day? Because I think I have a couple of ideas."

She grinned, giving Stiles – and his pitifully wrinkled Derek jumper – the once over.

Stiles’ stomach sunk. He clung tightly to Lou.

“And it seems that some shopping is in order.”


	10. The Accused

⚽

 **♪ for him. ~ Troye Sivan**   **♪**

⚽

* * *

 "I will not rest until this sad, wrinkled excuse for an outfit is banished to the deepest, darkest recesses of an appropriate trash receptacle. May its spirit be returned to whatever ring of hell it was sewn in. It should rot with the rest of the garbage. I will buy it exclusively to throw it away. Next!"

"Laura, it’s just an ugly shirt,  _move on._ This isn’t the E! Network," Derek grumbled, draped languidly across a sapphire blue armchair. He threw his head back against the cushion, meeting Stiles' eyes with the kind of deep, wordless sympathy reserved for those bonded together by their shared hatred of shopping.

Stiles didn’t answer, just smirked and stepped back into the humid blackness of the changing room. Derek huffed, throwing one of the overly artsy throw pillows trapped beneath his massive thigh at Laura. Stiles could hear it thud against the wall. " _Laura,_  really,we've been at the mall for two hours. All we've picked out is a scarf and a pair of jeans. At this rate, we're going to end up trapped in the Christmas rush before we get to shoes. Grab a couple pairs of Levis from the Target next door and call it a day. Stiles looks miserable."

"He does not! He's focused."

"Stiles is also right here, you gits," Stiles called through the thin dark-finish wood of the changing room wall, rolling his eyes and pulling the red Egyptian cotton t-shirt off over his head. He slipped into its navy blue counterpart and a new pair of black slim-fits before stepping briskly through the door. "Care to ask me how I feel? Or do you want to keep guessing until this ends in bloody and sorrowful massacre, a la George R.R. Martin?"

"It's pretty obvious how you feel," Derek muttered, eyes locked on Laura’s stoic profile, before turning his head and stealing a glance at Stiles with a wry smile. "But go ahead and enumerate all the ways you hate shopping so Laura can get it through her unbearably thick skull and call it a night."

"Or, you could go ahead and correct Derek's tragically misguided presumption that you subscribe to every hyper-masculine stereotype, exclusively for the sake of appealing to some abstract sense-of-self cultivated by a pointlessly gendered society,” Laura said, popping her gum.

“You’re both the absolute worst,” he said, in lieu of taking either side. “Does this shirt look good or not? I usually just assume I look shite in everything, I need a more nuanced opinion.”

“Try the small,” Derek said, picking at the corner of his thumb nail. “The medium makes you look like you’re wearing a pillow case.”

“Thanks, Derek,” Stiles grumbled. “You’re a real ego booster.”

“Do you want to prove to the world you have shoulders, or do you want to be comfortable?” Laura shouted, as Stiles slammed the door.

“My closet should answer that question  _for you_ , Laura!”

“The only question your closet answers is why good people do terrible things,” she tossed back. He could hear her nails tapping away on her Blackberry. “If my husband saw how you dressed he’d have a coronary. I don’t think Adam owns a single thing that isn’t custom tailored.”

Stiles forced his arm through the sleeve of the small, pulling his face through the remarkably tiny head hole. “Yeah, well, most of my clothes come from Tesco. I rather prefer to eat than look like a seamstress’ wet dream, thanks.” He gently nudged to door open, giving his entourage a measured smile while he stepped into the harsh light of the dressing room lobby. “How do I look?”

Derek, who was currently occupied with a string dangling off the end of his jumper sleeve, glanced quickly up and abruptly froze. “Oh.”

“Derek, ‘oh’ isn’t really an adjective.”

Laura lowered her Blackberry, looking pointedly between Stiles and her brother with a quirked brow. “By “oh” I think what my little brother over there is trying to say is that he’d bend you over a counter-top and fuck you until the granite crumbled.”

"Laura!" Derek barked. Was Stiles losing the last tattered remnants of his mind, or was Derek...blushing? "That's not what I meant and you know it!"

Derek huffed loudly while Laura shrugged and he ran a hand through his messy black hair. "I meant that it looks...nice. I didn't, uh, expect it to look that nice, okay?” He finished lamely.

Stiles propped a hand on his delicate hip, raising a brow. "Glad your expectations were so high, sourwolf. I'll have you know what I had no doubt I'd look excellent."

Derek gave him a look, biting the inside corner of the same nail he'd been picking at. "Stiles, you told me you thought you looked shite in everything not two minutes ago.” He let his hand fall limply against the side of the chair. “Plus, you fought both of us about the small.”

"It was the principle of the thing! You told me it looked like a pillow case! I'll have you know that pillow case or nay, any garment that has the privilege of being worn on  _this_ body..."

Laura "sent" whatever she'd been composing on her Blackberry and flicked Stiles' neck with the tips of her freshly manicured nails. He hissed and swatted her away. "Save the foreplay for the kitchen, you two," she said, pocketing her phone. Derek made a strangled sort of noise that sounded a bit like an opossum in a blender. "If you like the shirt, put it in the basket. And finish trying on the rest of what's in there. There’s no point in just putting it all away now. We can go after that, before Derek's fragile manhood is ruptured by free-market capitalism."

"Fragile my arse," Derek muttered, but he kept his eyes trained on the sleeve of his jumper, rolling the thread between his fingers.

Stiles grinned, stripping the shirt off right there in the center of the lobby and tossing it in the basket beside Derek's absurdly overfilled armchair. He'd never seen one man so utterly focused on removing a loose string. "Aye, aye Captain!"

# ❀

They really, really should’ve known.

“You two went to  _Dave’s,_ ” Stiles heard Laura screech through the speaker of Derek’s rose gold iPhone.

Derek grimaced and held the phone a ginger few inches away from his ear. “You showed up at a very sleazy, very public diner disheveled and alone at  _eight in the morning_ in the same clothes you left practice in the night before! What the  _hell_ were you thinking, Derek? You’re not  _new_ to this! You know the two of you need to stay out of the press! Are you  _trying_ to give Kate ammo for the trial?”

“What the actual fuck are you shouting about?” Derek asked, grimacing while he handed Stiles a cup of hot tea and sunk into the cushion beside him. Stiles’ could feel the heat from Derek’s thigh on his toes, curled together in a pair of socks with black wolves printed across the ankles.

Derek wedged the phone between his jaw and shoulder, quickly logging out of League of Legends and slamming his laptop closed. Stiles squawked and set his tea on the coffee table, suddenly being flanked on all sides by the enemies that Derek had been helping him clean up from an overrun outpost. “Laura, stop yelling for like, two minutes and explain to me exactly what’s going on, please. I  _just_ dropped you off at the airport, how are you already this pissed at me?”

Stiles finished looting the last corpse and grabbed his mug from its spot on the glass. He could still hear Laura seething into the phone. “I went into the little overpriced gift shop on my way through the terminal to get some Wheat Thins and  _lo and behold,_ there’s my little brother and who the press are dubbing his “hot new boy toy” on the cover of the Mirror!”

“At least they know how to use adjectives,” Stiles mumbled bitterly into his cup, finishing a long gulp and setting it back down on the coffee table with what was probably a little too much ‘umph.’ Derek gave him a look like he may very well shove him off of his couch. Stiles just rolled his eyes and gave Derek a look right on back. “The headline could’ve always just been “oh” or something, you know. Since that's what passes as descriptive in this family.”

“Have they made the link to that night at the Gala?” Derek asked, in lieu of the murder he’d clearly been contemplating, eyes sharply trained on Stiles. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Derek. The subheader is “From watered down to loved up - get the inside scoop on Derek Hale’s new hubby!” so you tell me. Do you think we’ve gotten there?”

Derek paused, taking a raspy breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Fuck, Stiles, are you…” he swallowed hard, pressing a still shouting Laura into the fabric of his green shirt  and meeting Stiles’ eyes. “Stiles, is this okay?”

Lou mewled from beside him and nuzzled against the side of his thigh. “It kinda has to be,” he mumbled quietly. “They didn’t exactly ask permission, yeah? Whatever, it’ll blow over.”

“Stiles, you just told me about the last time this happened - this isn’t some blurry Gala photo, what if they figure out the  _other_ connection…”

“Let it go, Derek,” he snapped. Lou looked up at him with wide, unblinking yellow eyes and laid a paw on his leg. “What are we going to do about it? Issue a denial? That just lends legitimacy to whatever absurd working theory the press have manufactured. We'll  _make_ it a story if we try and do anything at all. Just let it die on its own, it’s pretty much the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, anyway.”

Derek’s demeanor went cold, his entire body going rigid. “Oh,” he said.

The silence that filled the room like syrup was suffocating.

Derek’s brow furrowed and his mouth fell ever so slightly open before he schooled his face into some approximation of bland disinterest and took brought his phone back up to his ear. “Laura, I’ll take care of it,” he said, then hung up and stared blankly at the table for one, two, three seconds before rising from the couch.

Stiles looked up, his gaze trained on Derek’s retreating back. He followed him with his eyes all the way into the kitchenette, while the hollow place in his chest reserved for guilt and shame echoed with the bitter cruelty of whatever bullshit had just tumbled out of his mouth unbidden.

_Just let it die on its own, it’s pretty much the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, anyway._

“Derek, look, I didn’t mean - I just meant that really it’s no worse than the Gala - “

Derek set his phone on the granite counter-top in the kitchen. “I know what you meant, Stiles,” he said softly. His voice sounded tight, like it could snap without warning. “I’m actually not feeling great, I think I’m going to try and lie down.”

“Derek, I - “

“Don’t look out for me, tomorrow, I have practice all day, so I won't be home until late. I’m sure I’ll see you in the next few days, either way, ” he cut in. “Feel free to bring the tea to your apartment, if you want to.”

Derek hesitated just briefly, then the door to his bedroom slammed shut.

The surface of Stiles' tea rippled, quick and punctuated little waves, and Stiles felt whatever warmth had been wafting from the mug evaporating hard and fast into the air, the space filled instead by the ice of Derek’s voice.

Lou mewled sadly, and Stiles hiked him up on the crook of one arm, his laptop in the other, leaving the tea to grow cold in its spot on the glass.

“‘I know, buddy,” he whispered, gnawing his bottom lip and pinning a lingering look on Derek’s closed door while he left quietly through the front.

“I know.”

# ❀

Stiles hadn’t been ready.

He hadn’t been ready for a lot of things recently - the Argent case, his increasingly impossible financial situation, the introduction of a needy cat to his already chaotic life. But this -  whatever  _this_ was - this took the cake.

 

 

> **_Derek Hale Steps Out with Brunette Bombshell!_ **
> 
> _By Carson Willoughby,_ The Daily Mail 11/23/2014
> 
> Uh oh! Sorry, ladies and gents, but it seems that football’s favorite hunk may be fresh off the market.
> 
> New photos obtained exclusively by the Daily Mail show the ManU Captain cosying up to a mysterious brunette outside of footie practice on Monday. The two left together in Mr. Hale’s car after a long, arduous round of...ahem, _football_.
> 
> We may not know her name, but if the intimate photos of the two locking lips have anything to say about it, Derek Hale certainly does!
> 
> With speculation flying about Hale’s sexuality, maybe intensifying rumours will finally be quieted by the good-looking couple.
> 
> We may be jumping the gun, but we’d just like to say - they’d make  _beautiful_ children.  
>  _  
> __Subscribe to The Daily Mail for up to the minute updates on all of football’s favorite stars._

  
“Stiles?”

“Hmm?” he asked, blinking owlishly before rubbing the blurriness from his eyes. Scott. Scott was here, and he was worried. Shite. “Sorry.”

“Stiles, you’ve just been staring blankly at the screen for like...ten minutes. Are you okay? Is your character building skills or something? You know you can like, do other things while that’s happening, right? I note that your kitchen would love to be cleaned in the interim.”

“I - um, yeah, I know,” he answered, eloquently. His brain felt numb and empty, like it had been touched and erased by a magnet.  
  
Scott furrowed his brows and leaned over the back of Stiles’ couch, peering at his monitor. “You’re not on League of Legends?”

“No,” he said. He didn’t elaborate. All he could really make out was the frantic pounding of blood in his ears and the sound of loud, quick Spanish in the background. He vaguely hoped Scott was recording his telenovela, he was actually looking forward to this episode.

“Stiles, what…” Scott swung his legs over the arm of the couch, popping to his feet and striding over to the spot beside Stiles’ chair. “Oh! The story about Derek. I saw that this morning. That’s pretty great, yeah? It’ll help take the heat off of whatever speculation is going on with you two while you finish up the Argent case. I know I give you shite, but I know you're both just good friends. Allison was pretty relieved to see them stepping off of it too. I mean, come  _on,_ it’s so stupid. You two practically wanted to murder each other less than a month ago.”

Stiles didn’t move.

“Stiles? Hey, is everything okay?”

Stiles cleared his throat, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sorry, I just really need my glasses. I was having trouble reading and it’s hurting my eyes. I think I’m getting a headache.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Don’t scare me like that you arsehole, I thought you were having some sort of personal crisis about an article in the Daily Mail, for chrissakes.”

Stiles laughed. It sounded empty and dishonest, even to him. “Come on now, Scott,” he sniped. He quickly exited the tab, double clicking the League of Legends icon with a scoff.

His veins ran cold.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when I’m upset about Derek Hale’s love life.”

#  **❀**

Stiles wasn’t moping.

He wasn’t.

No matter what Scott, or Allison, or Lydia…or Danny, or his father…  
  
He wasn’t, okay?  
  
He was appropriately irked that Derek had done something stupid and rash because of a mistake they’d both made.    
  
That wasn’t moping, that was, like…basic human decency.  
  
Stiles was a thoughtful and sensitive person, that’s all. And if his kindness and compassion had evolved into a permanently terse and melancholy expression while he curled up on the couch in a leopard-print Snuggie and ate Indian food and carrot sticks for four days straight, well – that was really no one’s business but his.

If he’d also marathoned six seasons of Criminal Minds, the entirety of the Great British Bake-Off, and a few assorted one season gems, that was just all the better.

He was coping.  
  
Stiles pinned his orange, bejeweled cellphone between his shoulder and ear, looking half-heartedly at the menu that he already knew he’d had completely memorized since the week he’d moved in. There were two priorities when you moved into a new apartment: internet and a local establishment that serves the greasiest, tastiest shite that relatively little money can buy. “Rajesh, my dude, my south Asian prince, my fittest, most generous lover, I need an order of chicken tikka masala and samosas, stat. I’m dying out here.”  
  
“I’m not giving you more food, Stiles,” Raj barked, the clang of pans and scratch of silverware on dishes echoing somewhere in the background. Raj cleared his throat and snapped something at another server in what Stiles presumed was Hindi. “I told you that the past two times you’ve called!”  
  
“Come on, Rajjjjj, it’s for a good cause…” Stiles was a good cause. He had it on reasonably good authority (read: himself and Scott, once, when he was really drunk and Stiles was holding his phone hostage) that he was a good cause.  
  
“Your stomach is not a good cause! Go take a shower and get some sunlight before you wither away into a fistful of dust and angst. We’ve been through this – you get three orders a week before it’s a hazard to our business and out peace of mind to keep feeding you what you damn well know is pureed shite.”

“Dude, Raj, come on!”

“Call me on Monday if you’re not a corpse yet, and I’ll bring you chicken. Until then, go eat a fucking vegetable and stop calling me.”  
  
Stiles gawped. “Raj, don’t you hang up on me! I’m a man in need! I can be a charitable deduction on your taxes, I’ll have my dad help - ”

“Monday!”  
  
The line went dead, and Stiles dropped his phone forlornly into the extra pink afghan pooled in a limp ball on the floor. “Git,” he muttered. He sighed, sparing a sheepish glance at his coffee table.

He wasn't being that sad, was he?

One of the thirteen magazines fell off the edge of the table when he huffed a little too hard in its general direction.

Okay, that  _was_ pretty pitiful.

Stiles eyed the twelve remaining tabloids he’d splayed across the table’s buffed surface in some weird, ritualistic Derek-Hale-pity-party, interspersed with empty carry-out containers, stained plastic forks and half of the dishes in his many - now, curiously empty - cabinets.

Okay, so he may have been moping.

But it wasn’t that he cared that the press thought Derek had, like...a thing. With someone. That wasn’t him. That was totally not even remotely the problem. He swore it wasn't.

The problem is that Derek’s eyes in those pictures were so... _dead._ The life and sparkle that made Derek, well...  _Derek_ had fled faster than Scott after he discovered Allison had bookmarked the pages of every local jeweler on Google Chrome.

He recognized the look of someone who was pretending to be okay. He’d practiced, perfected,  _patented_ that look during his own stint as Britain’s latest, most tragic darling all those years ago. That was the look of someone who’d rather stick his hand in a blender than see one more camera flash - but would stick his hand in two blenders before he let you know he felt that way.

He looked miserable, is what Stiles was getting at.

“Derek,” he muttered, pushing his legs out from underneath the nest of blankets he’d cocooned himself in on the couch. The telltale static-y feeling of paresthesia ricocheted through his calf and ankle while he kicked off his Snuggie. “You stupid fucker.”

Stiles took a few seconds to stretch his sore muscles before he limped off to the bath, making every attempt - and ultimately failing to - be gentle on his, now numb, right foot.

Hats off to the sufferers of chronic nerve disorders. It had been twenty-five seconds and Stiles was already considering self-amputation.

He dumped half a bag of epsom salts in the bath and eased himself into a lavender scented fuckery that was his pastel pink plastic tub, plucking a cheesy, water-wrinkled crime novel he was about halfway through from the shelf over the toilet.

He’d made it to the final chapter by the time his pruned arse heard the knock on his door.

Stiles sighed.

Did Scott have to literally live up his arse?

C’mon, a man needs time to soak.

“Come in, it’s unlocked!” He screeched through the open bathroom door. It wasn’t like there was anything on display that Scott hadn’t already seen a dozen times a day during lacrosse practice and general “dudes-being-dudes” drunk shenanigans.

Shit, he still hadn't asked Scott how he ended up in Boyd's yard in a gorilla suit and bedazzled flip-flops.

He needed to do that.

Note to self.

He heard the shuffle of heavy boots and a rustling of a few reusable plastic bags as a hooded figure, damp from the afternoon’s light drizzle, peeked innocently into his tiny bathroom. “Hey, Stiles, I brought over some law journals that featured the case, I thought maybe they’d - “

Stiles promptly dropped his book directly in the tub.

“Oh.”

# ❀

“Derek Hale, what on God’s green Earth made you think that peering into my bathroom like the world’s dreamiest stalker  _was a good idea?_ ”

Derek looked sheepishly at his feet, which - thank the motherfucking lord - were socked for once. Progress was being made there, at least. Manners - not so much. His boots were drying beside Stiles’ door in a limp pile of damp leather and shame.

How far had that idiot walked in the rain to get some  _law journals?_

That shite was online.

Come on, Derek.

“You said to come in. I figured that meant you were...decent for company.”

Stiles scoffed in the way that fathers scoff at children who forget to empty the dishwasher, even though  _I've told you six times, Stiles, it would literally take you five minutes if you'd just get of your arse_. Ahem.  “What could I have possibly been doing in the bathroom that was  _open for public viewing?!”_

Derek shrugged, giving Stiles a blank look that told him absolutely nothing. He could still make out the the telltale glisten of raindrops on the tips of Derek’s long eyelashes, though. Which was...really not the primary concern, right now. Pull it together, Stiles. “I don’t know. Cleaning?”

Stiles put on hand on his bare, cocked hip.

Yes, bare.

He’d frantically thrown on the first pair of pyjama pants he’d found on the bathroom floor. One of six or seven pairs shoved behind the door, and the one pair that happened to be far too big not to sag halfway down his arse.

Awesome.

Thanks to his consistently poor choices, his hair and chest were still completely, nakedly, alarmingly dripping-wet, brown strands pasted to his forehead like a second skin.

“When have I ever cleaned?” Stiles all but screeched, because screeching was appropriate in this situation. He gestured wildly around his living room, where Derek was sitting dejectedly on Stiles’ nest-couch of shame and leftovers. “Do you see my apartment? Have you  _met me?_ I am utterly baffled as to what would give you even the minutest impression that I am a person who owns a single sponge.”

Derek flushed. “I’m...uh, sorry. If it makes you feel better I didn’t really...see much.”

Stiles choked on his own spit. “What does  _much_ mean, Derek? Christ!”

If it were possible, Derek went even redder. As usual, he started picking at the end of his tattered sleeve rather than make meaningful eye contact like a normal person. “No more than you saw that night at my apartment?”

“We were already even with that shite. Oh my god, you’ve seen me nude twice now. This is a catastrophe. I’m going to have to off myself. What do you think is more poetic, pills or jumping off the balcony?”

“To be fair, you weren’t really nude the first time.”

“Derek!”

Derek snorted, pushing his inky black hair out of his face and rubbing his temples. “Right, sorry. Again. Um. Would it make you feel better to see me naked?”

Stiles’ entire body, head to toe, turned a deeply troubling shade of scarlet. “Derek, oh my  _god,_ I didn’t think you could make this worse. I really didn’t. But here you are, offering me a strip tease. And I had to listen to it with my very own two ears, in my very own living room, from my very own, very perverted neighbor. Who happens to be a celebrity. This is too much, I'm living in a soap opera.”

“I mean, it would also keep me from continuing to dampen your couch with my rain-soaked clothing, if that’s at all compelling.”

“Dude, I don’t carry small bills, I wouldn’t be able to pay you for services rendered. You’d better just stay clothed.” Stiles sighed, wiping away a stray drop of water sliding down his jaw. “Get those law journals out, I’m going to go get properly dressed before this gets any weirder. I’ll bring you some spare pyjamas and, like...a notebook or something.”

Derek nodded, pulling a huge stack out of one of his three bags.

Stiles saw him freeze when he looked at the coffee table.

He turned and slowly and began walking to opposite direction.

“Stiles, what the fuck?”

Shite.

Shite, shite, shite, motherfucking  _shite._

“Yes?” He said, because he was a moronic moron who’d moroned and had sat Derek Hale directly in front of his terribly embarrassing, difficult to explain, troublingly complete Derek-Hale-shrine-of-mopey-tabloids.

“Why are there at least twelve pictures of my face on your coffee table?”

Stiles stopped dead, refusing to look behind him. “If you drop that, I’ll drop the whole “Derek possibly saw my prick while I was in the bath” thing.”

There was a beat of silence

“Deal.”

#  **❀**

“Stiles, what did you do to Derek?” Isaac asked him Monday morning, over a steaming, immaculately prepared cup of cappuccino at the cafe down the road from his flat.

Stiles choked, spitting half a mouthful of incredibly hot tea all over his red “BROOKLYN” t-shirt.

He’d never even been to New York, but he didn’t put it past himself to be a huge poser.

Also, it was the only clean thing in his entire apartment.

So sue him.

“I didn’t do anything to Derek. What could have possibly given you the idea that I - Stiles Stilinski - local peasant and person of no particular note - could have done anything at all to Derek Hale, Manchester United’s grumpiest team captain slash scariest dreamboat?”

Isaac rolled his eyes. “He hasn’t spoken two words to anyone outside of practice and text messages for more than a week.”

Stiles frowned, dumping another packet of sugar into his cup. He was already five packets deep, but if he did it slow, it was less likely that people would notice that it was more soggy granules than tea.

It was a slow and sneaky process.

It also gave him something to do with his constantly jittery hands.

Attention disorders were just great _._

“Maybe that has something to do with his fake girlfriend? Don’t ask me.” He sniped, stirring his tea with an absurdly tiny spoon. “I’d sip this poetically, but it’s still too hot, hence half of why I just spit it out all over myself, so imagine that I am “sipping the tea” as the kids say. The “but that’s none of my business” tea that Kermit sips, yeah?”

“You’re not going to throw me off this with memes, Stiles,” Isaac snorted, taking another sip of his five-dollar hot cow juice. “And I know damn well it was you, because he couldn’t possibly give less of a shite about Jennifer. She’s just a hired gun. His real concern is you.”

“I don’t follow.”

Isaac set his cup down on the rolled fabric coaster, slipping his (still hilarious) pink phone from his jacket pocket and punching through what must’ve been at least fifty texts. He shoved the phone at Stiles. “Look.”

“Isaac - ”

“For fuck’s sake, Stiles, just look.”

> **_From: Der-Bear; 8:42pm_ **
> 
> _Do u kno anyone who we can hire?_
> 
> **_From: Der-Bear; 8:43pm_ **
> 
> _Stiles seemed rlly stressed about it_ _  
> _ _He doesnt need this rn_
> 
> **_From: Der-Bear; 8:48pm_ **
> 
> _Id like to get something set up asap_
> 
> **_From: Der-Bear; 8:51pm_ **
> 
> _Isaac, srsly, im really worried_ _  
> _ _Please answer_

Stiles tried incredibly hard to make absolutely no facial expression as he handed Isaac back his phone of girlish splendor. “Well, there you go, that’s what’s wrong. He just wanted to clear things up with the rumors.”

“Stiles, you know damn well a tabloid scandal doesn’t explain why he’s been totally out of it lately. He’s dealt with far worse.”

Stiles groaned. “I don’t know what you’re looking for here, Isaac.”

Isaac slipped his phone back into his jacket, ripping off a piece of the scone that Stiles totally forgot was there, or he’d have absolutely mooched at least half of it.

Isaac raised a sculpted brow accusingly.  
  
“What I’m asking is if you’ve know this entire time that Derek Hale is in love with you.”


	11. Gone

⚽

**♪ _Love Like You_   _~_ Rebecca Sugar ♪**

⚽

* * *

 

“Stiles, it’s pouring, get in the car!” 

“No!” He snapped, pulling his drenched hood tighter around his head. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore.

Or his legs.

Or anything, really.

He probably should’ve brought his drink from the cafe, now that he thought about it. Or some gloves. Or an umbrella. Actually, if he thought about it, he probably should’ve just silently fumed at Isaac in his warm, dry car. But Stiles wasn’t exactly infamous for his good judgement so much as for his appalling lack of it.

“Isaac, I refuse to listen to this…” he waved his hands indiscriminately. At least, he thought he was waving his hands. They were pretty worryingly numb at this point. “Whatever!”

“I’m trying to help you out!” Isaac insisted. At least three separate cars had honked at him as he inched slowly along the side of the road, crawling along at fucking 2km per hour and verbally harassing Stiles from his million pound batshit-mobile.

Isaac swerved to avoid a parked Hyundai, then pulled back up against the curb. “Stiles, Derek is head over heels for you, he’s just too stupid to see it. You have to make the first move or he’s going to gnaw his bottom lip to death every time he leaves his fucking flat and sees your door.”

Another honk. Isaac flipped some poor bastard off.

Stiles had now lost feeling in his feet. The sky showed no signs of slowing down. Typical. At least he was almost at his flat. “What makes you think I even like him, Isaac? Because, what, we looked through his case a few times? I’m the prosecutor’s son and Kate’s processing an appeal, of course I’m gonna help! That doesn’t mean I want to have sex with him!”

Isaac snorted. “Stiles, don’t be ridiculous. Everyone wants to sleep with Derek.”

Stiles side eyed him, traipsing through a particularly deep puddle with a surprised hiss. He wrinkled his nose and shook out his foot. “Oh? Finally speaking for yourself?”

Isaac curled his lip. “Ew. No. You know what I mean.”

“I really, really don’t.”

Isaac groaned. “Are you literally going to make me spell this out for you, word for word?”

“I’m not making you do anything!” He screeched. “I’m trying to walk back to my stupid flat and take a warm shower in peace! You’re following me in a car that’s worth more than my entire inheritance and yelling lies out your window!”

“Derek. Likes. You.”

“Lies!”

“He wants to have sex with you in your terrible, messy arse flat,” Isaac bellowed from his window.

“Isaac, I swear…”

“He’d love to take you up against that ugly granite countertop. Shove right into  - “

An elderly woman in a burnt orange sweater side-eyed him from the bus stop as he passed. Stiles flushed. “Isaac, for chrissakes, can you  _tone it down?_ There are  _people_ around. Jesus.  _The Mirror_ can practically smell a blossoming story from the bottom of their office in the local dumpster downtown.”

Isaac whipped into the lot beside Stiles’ building, jumping out of his car with a flourish. He almost tripped on several rocks, which was the kind of poetic justice Stiles could get behind. “Can you just let me prove this to you?”

“Isaac, shut up.”

Stiles felt Isaac’s hand close over his damp shoulder as he rifled through his pockets for his keys. “Please, Stiles. He’s...he’s not doing well. You’re special to him, yeah? Forget anything imprudent. Can you just talk to him? He cares about you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, pushing the door open with his shoulder and shoving the hood of his banana sweatshirt (thanks compulsive online shopping) down around his neck. “I’ve literally only been ignoring him for like...a week. And it wasn’t even intentional. I’ve just been busy.”

Isaac grabbed the stack of mail for Stiles’ flat from its spot on the table on their way up. “He thinks you’re mad,” he insisted, jogging behind him like a particularly lost puppy.

Stiles unlocked his door and pushed a curious Lou back in the flat with his foot, gesturing for Isaac to come in. At least his apartment was clean for once. He’d recently discovered the merits of stress-cleaning.

Isaac dropped the mail on the countertop. Stiles sighed. “I’m not mad, I’m just trying not to be a loony stalker. I happen to not want to look like I’m taking advantage of him. Or start more rumours.”

“He’s only dispelling the rumours for your sake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” Stiles grumbled, peeking in his fridge and grabbing a bottle of juice.

Isaac sighed. Stiles rummaged through his cabinets for a clean cup. “Look,” Isaac started, leaning up against the fridge. “He’ll be home from practice around 7 or so tonight. Can you just get a pizza or something? It would mean a lot to him.” Isaac plucked his wallet out of his front pocket, shoving a couple pounds at him. “I’m also getting pretty sick of him moping around all day. It’s killing my vibe.”

Stiles pushed Isaac’s hand back, turning back to pour his juice. “Isaac, I don’t want your money. Just...tell me. Really. Why do you care so much? What did Derek do to earn this kind of loyalty? This can’t be how you wanted to spend your Monday morning.”

Isaac worried his lip between his teeth, slowly pushing the bills back in his wallet. “Derek didn’t tell you?”

Stiles raised a brow, grabbing the cup of juice from the counter and shuffling over to his living room to flop onto his couch. Isaac followed suit. “Tell me what?”

Isaac pushed a stray curl from his eyes. “Shite, he really didn’t.” He plucked his kitschy pink cell phone out of his shirt pocket, holding it up like a particularly spectacular artifact. It still just looked like an old phone, no matter how much Isaac waved it back and forth. “You’ve never wondered why I kept this stupid thing so long?”

Stiles scoffed. “Of course I did. But it never really came up. Why?”

“Derek got this for me when I was fifteen.”   
  
“What’s your point?”

“He got this for me so he could pick me up.” Isaac smiled softly down at the phone. “When my dad was...really bad.”

Stiles’ face drained of color. He felt his gut swimming. Isaac’s dad? Now that he thought about it, he remembered Boyd and Derek mentioning Isaac’s dad at the party. What was it Derek had said?

_He’ll fight us all the way down, and his father will be livid. No doubt it’ll make it into the papers if the cops are called again._

The cops. Again.

Christ.

”You’ve known Derek since you were fifteen?” Stiles said, in lieu of crying like he wanted to.

Isaac nodded, pushing his dingy old canvas Toms off onto the floor. Stiles, suddenly acutely aware that he was still incredibly wet, ripped off his sweatshirt and sneakers, tracing the wet spot he was making on his cushion with his fingers absently. Isaac cleared his throat. “After my brother died, my dad...he couldn’t look at me without seeing him. He’d lock me away so he wouldn’t have to.”

Isaac swallowed, his glossy eyes focusing on anything other than Stiles’. “I started spending as much time as I could away from home. I joined everything. Sports, clubs, afterschool programs - all of it.”

“And Derek...he was my “big” in this one program. We...weren’t well off, but Derek got me everything I needed to start playing football. He played footie at the university next door, and had a ton of extra equipment. Jersey’s, cleats, the whole lot. God, all the other kids were so jealous. Especially when he got signed to ManU.” A sweet little smiled tugged on Isaac’s lips, but it was sad, almost.

“He basically adopted me. I all but lived with him and Laura my last few years of school.” Isaac put his phone back in his pocket, patting it protectively.

“Derek’s...like a big brother to me. He has been for awhile. I don’t think I would’ve gotten through my childhood without him. So that’s why I spent my Monday morning trying to help him.”

Stiles’ thought he might implode. Derek. Derek  _Hale_ had done that? Derek Hale had  _basically adopted a child,_ when he was in Uni? What else was he hiding in that brooding, gorgeous head of his? “Derek...wait. Wait, wait, wait. He’s why you played football? And that whole thing, at his apartment, with the gala...he wasn’t being super protective just to be a jackass? He was legitimately concerned about your wellbeing.”

Isaac smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. I thought about explaining it, but every time I went to I just...worried that I was crossing some line.” He wrung his hands together, glancing up at Stiles’ door like he thought Derek might walk in at any moment and prove him right. “Derek doesn’t get to keep much of his personal life to himself anymore. It just seemed wrong to reveal more than I had to.”

Stiles was speechless. He had no words. He was beginning to think, when it came to Derek, that was more the rule than the exception.

Isaac caught his lip between his teeth again. “So, do you get it now? I just want him to be happy, because that’s what he let me be. And for so long that’s been utterly impossible, but since he met you he just...he has a lightness about him. He’s  _excited_ to do things, Stiles. I’ve never seen Derek excited like that. All he’s ever been is selfless, and for once, I think he’s learning to do things for himself.”

Stiles opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Ran a hand through his hair. “Isaac, I just don’t think that we’re…”

Isaac held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine! Forget I said anything about the two of you dating or whatever. But don’t cut him out of your life. I don’t want to see him go back to what he was. Not when I’ve seen what he can be.”

Stiles groaned. “God, Isaac, you suck.Stop making me feel like I should  _help people._ My life was so easy before you tits came into it.”

Isaac laughed. Stiles threw his head back against the arm of his sofa. Lou rubbed his hand where it dangled from the couch.

“Now give me some ideas where to get pizza. If I get it from Angelo’s again, they’re going to block my number.”

Isaac eyed the precarious stack of neat, empty pizza boxes beside Stiles’ trash can. “That bad?”

He nodded solemnly. “That bad.”

# ❀

“Derek, can you stop staring at me and say something?”

Derek dropped his red duffle bag, his keys suspended in midair. His sweaty hair was pointing in every direction, his red jersey stuck to him like a second skin. Stiles was trying desperately hard not to stare. “Why are you in my apartment? How are you in my apartment? Why are you sitting like that? Why is there a pizza on my coffee table? Is that your cat on the back of my couch?” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, propping himself back up on his elbows. His long-sleeve baseball tee was making it pretty hard to be ironically - seductively - posed like this, but he was managing for the aesthetic. Men’s clothing sucked. “Isaac let me in. Yes, that is my cat, he’s a needy bastard and cannot be left alone.”

He gave Lou a look.

Lou just purred harder.

“To answer questions 500 and 501, I thought you could use some free grease, and this pose happens to be inspired by the  _Titanic,_ thank you. I’ve employed it for humorous effect. I’ve also been waiting for you to get home for ages. I’ve been sitting like this for  _fourteen minutes._ Be a little bit grateful, you arse.”

“You’re not Kate Winslet. You just look weird. She never even posed like that.”

“Derek!” Stiles barked. “I’ve graced you with both my presence and free pizza and your first instinct is to insult me?”

“Sorry,” Derek grumbled - insincerely - plopping in his armchair with a quirked brow. Lou stretched out sleepily and padded across the top of the couch to sit in Derek’s lap.

Stiles glared at him.

Traitor.

“I thought you had a run with Danny and Lydia tonight?” Derek asked, jjust barely covering a yawn. 

Stiles grinned. “I see you do pay attention to the Guild chat.”

Derek grunted, scratching behind Lou’s ears. “It moves at a million messages a second, I do my best.”

Stiles waved a hand. Which he knew he did, because he could  _feel it this time._ “Whatever. Point is, I canceled, which they seemed inappropriately excited about. I think they’re cheating on me with another tank. I’m devastated. Comfort me.”

“There, there,” Derek muttered. Also insincerely.

Stiles snorted. “Now, are you or are you not going to enjoy this delicious pizza that I bought for us? Because I even went through the effort of getting extra meat so you can wolf down all that protein you big, strong footie players need on that diet of yours.”

Derek reached for the box, careful not to jar the sleeping cat. “I don’t think, even with extra meat, this pizza is part of our approved diet plan.”

“A shame,” Stiles said, grabbing a slice of his own. “So, I would like to put out there that I haven’t been to one of your games in ages. And there’s a home game tomorrow night. So, basically what I’m saying is…” Stiles held out his free hand, wiggling his fingers. “Gimme gimme. Where are my tickets?”

Derek glanced up, his eyes just slightly wider. “Wait, really? I didn’t think you liked coming. I would’ve offered.”

“Of course I want to come, Derek,” Stiles said, voice softer than he’d meant it to be. Fuck. “But I’ve been staying away. I know you and the team are trying to cultivate a narrative with your new “girlfriend” - I don’t want to put that in jeopardy by showing back up in your player’s box.”

Derek swallowed, looking forlornly down at a sleeping Lou. “It’s…”

He paused, then looked back up, meeting Stiles’ eyes. “You know what? I don’t care. Fuck it.”

Stiles blinked. “Huh?”

Derek ran a hand through his damp hair, then threw it in the air. “Fuck it! Fuck all of it. I don’t care. Kate isn’t going to win the case because I’m friends with the lead prosecutor’s son. You have nothing to do with this. I’ll tell the media to stay away from my box. I’ll issue a statement. I’ll send you up there in a fucking paper bag if I have to. You deserve to live your life. You don’t need to go through this because you want to watch a footie match.”

Stiles swallowed. “Derek, I didn’t mean...I don’t have to be in your box.” He sat up fully, rubbing his eyes. God, when did this get so hard? His friendship with Scott had always been so straightforward. So easy. With Derek it was like navigating a minefield, waiting for one of them to blow. Waiting for the peace to shatter.

“Look, I want you to win this just as much as I want my privacy. And I’m done being petty about things. I’m happy to just sit in the crowd, like everyone else. I just want to be there to support you, yeah? This isn’t really about me.” He wound his shirt through his fingers. “It really never has been.”

“Stiles…” Derek stopped, taking a deep breath. His entire body was tensed, like a coil waiting to spring. “You…”

The moment held itself, suspended in time, nothing but the sound of heavy breaths and Stiles’ stupid, purring cat.

“Derek,” he started, because what else could he do? What else was there to do, when this weird, simmering tension that existed between them boiled over like this?

Silence. Poised, precarious, cliff-jumping  _silence._

Then Derek was suddenly on top of him, his mouth warm over his, the radiant heat of his chest pressed against Stiles’.

Somewhere in the back of his brain, Stiles could hear Lou darting under the couch, hissing.

But god, the rest of his brain, all it could feel was...him. Derek. Rock solid, warm, tortured Derek whose mouth tasted like cheap all-meat pizza and who smelled like sweat and grass, charcoal and the crisp fall air.

Derek, who spent his life helping other people. Who barked and grumbled and rolled his eyes all the way to sainthood. Derek, whose life had been inexplicably tied with his from the beginning, whose past read like a bad horror novel, whose apartment was filled with pictures of all the people he’d lost.

Derek, who…

Really deserved so much better than someone like Stiles.

“I - “ Stiles began, tearing his mouth from Derek’s like a bandaid from pink skin, taking one deep, slow and measured breath and meeting his eyes. “I, um…I don’t think this is a good idea, Derek.”

Derek’s face, open and wanting, abruptly locked into an expression of icy fear. He ripped his hands from Stiles’ neck and chest, swallowing. “God, I’m...I’m sorry. I’m…” He took a steadying breath, stumbling backwards. “That wasn’t...I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“It’s okay,” Stiles whispered. He quietly closed the pizza box, prying his cat from beneath the couch. Derek rested one hand on the chair to steady himself, his head in the other. Stiles could see that his eyes were screwed shut. “It’s okay, Derek. Really. I’m...I’m going to head back to my place, but you can keep the pizza.”

“Yeah,” Derek answered in a quiet whisper.

“And hey,” he said, turning to leave.

Derek’s breathing stopped for a fraction of a second.

“Leave those tickets with my mail, okay?”

A pair of watery eyes were suddenly on trained him. Stiles smiled gently.

“See you tomorrow, Der.”  
  
And he was gone.


	12. Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: if you look closely, there is implied past suicidal ideation in this chapter. Blink and you’ll miss it, but it’s in the first section below. Skip to the divider if you’d like - you won’t miss much! (You'll catch on at the next divider, don't worry!)

⚽

 **♪** _ **Sinners ~**_   **Lauren Aquilina♪**

⚽ 

* * *

 

“Stiles, you haven’t logged off in more than fifteen hours. What’s going on?”

“Lydia, now is really not the time.”

Lydia’s avatar fired off a devastating once-a-day spell with her character’s free hand, turning to face Stiles’ avatar with the other hand on her voluptuous hip. The creature’s corpse wavered and tumbled headfirst into a pile of bones in the background. “Oh, look, it appears that it has suddenly become time.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair. Not that Lydia could see that. They hadn’t video chatted in ages. Which, considering the frankly depressing state of his recently clean flat was...probably for the best. “The trial’s coming up soon, that’s all. It digs up a lot of bad memories.”

Lydia sighed, her avatar laying a hand on Stiles’ shoulder while she teleported them to the nearest major population hub. He could feel his tired eyes burning with the sudden flash of bright light and the flickering animation of Legions’ loading screen.

“I know that’s not it,” she finally said, quietly, and her voice did the thing it did when she was trying to be his friend just a little bit harder than he could handle. A little bit gentler than he could do without cracking open like a fucking walnut and baring his entire soul.

He felt a sob catch in his throat.

Lydia panicked, which was notably rare for someone who color coordinated her air fresheners with her seat covers. “Stiles? Stiles!”

“Relax, Lyds, I’m not where I was,” he managed, wiping the corner of his embarrassingly watery eyes with his dingy shirtsleeve. When was the last time he changed his shirt? If he thought about it too hard his head started to hurt. He settled for “awhile ago.”

She caught her breath and made a thoughtful little noise that would’ve made his younger self’s heart flutter. All it did now was continue it’s steady plod forward. “I’m coming in.”

He wanted to tell her not to. He really, really did.

Except that he didn’t. At all.

He wanted the sweet, strawberry blond girl who he loved more than life itself at 16, the brilliant mathematician who’d helped him claw his way out of a stifling depression, the thrilling investigator who’d helped him find a hobby that made life worth living again — and had continued to make it a part of her very busy life for years to come. He wanted her there with him now more than ever.

No, he needed her.

“Okay.”

Lydia made a determined, final sounding “harrumph!” and her character emoted joy. A rarity, considering its nearly perpetual pout. “Good! Now, give me just a few minutes to pack and buy a bus ticket online. And get some sleep before I see you, you know you look terrible with bags. It really doesn’t work with your whole “nerd chic” aesthetic, no matter what those terrible blogs you follow say.”

“You can either have me well-rested, or you can have a clean apartment when you get here.”

She tutted. “Now, now, sweetheart — anything you clean, I’ll just fix.” He heard a faint shuffling in the background. “Get some sleep, I’ll see you soon.”

Despite himself, Stiles felt a soft smile touch his lips. “Okay, Lyds.”

“And for fuck’s sake, listen for the bell this time.”

# ❀

“Lydia, oh my god, the blender is fine. Can you please sit down and eat with me?”

“This blender is an absolute affront to every sensibility I possess as a woman,” she declared, eyeing the fleshy fruit material caught in the blades while she glided over to the sink with it resting softly between her hands. She was wearing a pastel pink, lace-fronted dress that made everything she did seem more graceful, somehow. Even if it was just glaring at blenders and the fruity corpses inside.

Lydia had forced him to get fruit on their “Stiles, get some goddamn real food and stop eating shite” shopping trip, courtesy of her very platinum credit card, but she couldn’t force him to eat it. That’s where the smoothie he was dutifully sucking up through a bendy straw (mixed with two cups of frozen yogurt) came in.  
  
She flipped on the sink. “You need to rinse it out before it dries and cakes in there,” she said simply, running a manicured finger carefully around the blades and dumping the resulting pulpy mess into the drain.

Stiles blinked up at her and breathed out. “Lyds, seriously, please sit. I want to talk.”

Her face paled considerably, and she set the blender (sans base) on the edge of the sink, smoothing the silky front of her delicate dress. “Oh! Well, you should’ve just said so.” She strode over the the chair opposite Stiles and sat down gently, careful not to catch the edge of her skirt on the wood. “Spill it, Stilinski.”

Stiles took a bite of his macaroni and cheese (real! With actual cheese!) thoughtfully. “I need you to promise not to brag or scream.”

Lydia wrinkled her nose, scrunching up her pouty lips along with it. “Stiles, I’m not an infant. Obviously I can handle not making high-decibel noises.”

“I’m not sure you can," he said. Truthfully.

“Stiles!”

He pushed his hair violently from his face. “Fine! Fine! Okay, last week, something...happened.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “In the twistiest of fates, things continue to occur in the Stilinski household.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. Her pointy little nose was turned up on his slouched form, and she regarded him with bright, mischievous eyes. “Please, continue to enthrall me with your vague prose.”

Stiles pursed his lips, then took another enormous bite of pasta. He coughed and looked away once he’d swallowed. “Something...intimate.”

Lydia leaned back, her eyes widening and mouth breaking into a triumphant grin. “Oh! Well, now that is interesting. Would the person who these intimacies happened with happen to be a famous football player? Perhaps heavily stubbled, often grumpier than a highly regarded internet feline, also fond of the MMORPG game we both hold so dear?”

Stiles’ jaw twitched, and he gnawed on the corner of his thumbnail. “He may.”

Lydia’s face was ravenously curious. “How intimate we talkin’, Stiles?”

His face went beet red, and he ran his tongue over his teeth. Why had he invited Lydia over again? Had he, really? She had pretty much invited herself. He already regretted it, either way. His pity party was really a solo affair. “A kiss.”

Lydia slammed her hand on the table. Stiles jumped. “About time! God, if I had to watch him oogle you via guild chat for another minute I was going to lose my goddamn mind.”

“What happened to no high-decibel noises?”

“I was not adequately prepared for the possibility that you’d finally  _gotten some_.” She tapped her fingernails rhythmically against the table and smirked, plucking a grape from the small bowl he’d brought to the table with him with her free hand.

Okay, so maybe he was eating some fruit. Sue him.

“Alright, so he kissed you. Why are you destitute and depressed in your own apartment when you could be furiously sexing that absolutely flawless arse?”

“Lydia, Jesus,” Stiles pinched his temples. She shrugged, and he gave her a look. “I’m not...I don’t...it’s not right. It could ruin his case against Kate. A relationship with him would…” his heart dropped. A relationship? He hadn’t thought about it in those terms. Not until now. Could he ever be with Derek Hale?

Stiles...didn’t know.

Lydia’s voice was soft, suddenly. “Would what, Stiles?”

He looked away. “I don’t know.”

Lydia pushed a small puff of air through her glossy lips, then cleared her throat, adjusting her skirts. “Well, okay, let’s start with the basics.” She took out her bubblegum pink phone, absently clicking a couple of things on the home screen. “So, you guys are friends now. Proper mates. Close.”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, yeah, we are, I guess.”

She looked up from her phone, then shoved it up in his eye-line. She’d pulled up a glossy tabloid photo of a greased up Derek, posing with nothing but a football covering his...more delicate anatomy. Stiles felt the blood pool in his groin. “And you’re attracted to him,” she said. Didn’t ask. Said.

“I didn’t…”

She gave him a coy grin. “Your eyes did. And you have, in the past. You wrote a 500 word ode to me about how adorable he was in your apartment in his glasses and sweats.”

“I was shocked that celebrities are so normal, can you blame me?”

“Stiles, that was weak. Even for you.” She scrolled down through her phone. “As for Derek, he’s clearly smitten.”

“Says who?”

Lydia slid her phone across the table. She’d opened it to a folder of screenshots, not-so-subtly titled:  **“Are you actually fucking kidding me?”**  Her face was imploring, one of her cheeks hollowed where she was sucking on it pensively. “Look, Stiles, the guy is head over heels for you. Has been for awhile." Stiles' eyes were glued to the floor. Lydia sighed. _"Look, dammit._ ”

“Lydia!”

“Look, Stiles!”

"I never even got concert tickets, Lydia."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "So it fell through. Don't be nit-picky. Keep going."

Stiles poked at his canines with his tongue thoughtfully. “And when did you get Isaac’s number? And, like, how? Also, why is your phone set to Italian?”

“Some of us like to learn new things. That’s not the point, Stiles! Keep going.”

“Was that why they -?”

“Keep going!”

Stiles choked. Lou? What was a picture of Lou doing on Instagram? He’d never told another soul outside of his closest circle of friends that he’d adopted a cat at all. “Is that my cat?”

Lydia smiled victoriously. “One more.”

Stiles blinked. Was any of this real? Had anything been real this entire time? “He has an Instagram?”

Lydia shrugged, her tongue poking just slightly out of the corner of her mouth while she lined up the remaining grapes in the dish. “It’s private, but it’s not very hard to find when you track who follows it. Plus he’s not exactly subtle. ‘DH_onthe_DL?’ Derek Hale, on the down low? Get it?”

“Oh.”

Lydia quietly took her phone back and hit the power switch on the side. Her eyes flicked back up to Stiles, dark lashes lowering in tandem with the slow widening of her smile. “So he likes you, you like him. Kate is going to try to manipulate the situation whether you two are dating or not. You’re not going to make or break her appeal, Stiles.” Lydia set her hand over his, looking earnestly up at him. “You can keep a relationship quiet for three weeks.”

Stiles gnawed his lip.

She gave him another gentle smile. “You two are into each other. The only question is: what are you gonna do about it?”

# ❀

“Scott, buddy, I need a pep talk like, yesterday.”

Stiles could hear various forlorn animals yowling in the background. Scott shushed them. Ineffectively. Stiles absently hoped that Deacon didn’t mind Scott being on the phone at work. Considering Deacon treated Stiles a bit like a second son, he doubted he did, though he wasn't about to ask either way. “I’m going to need a little more information than that, dude.”

Stiles blew a series of 'yes, they're totally mature, thank you for asking, dad' raspberries, rubbing absently at the circles under his eyes. “I’m about to confess my undying devotion to Derek Hale, I’m freaking the fuck out,  _and Lydia isn’t helping._ ”

_“WHAT?”_

Lydia pried the phone just a few inches from Stiles’ jaw so she could shout into the receiver. “Hi Allison! Scott! Stiles is a moron but I’m getting it sorted.”

 _“Lydia!”_ Scott shouted, _“What is he talking about? Stiles, what are you talking about?”_

 _“Congratulations, Stiles! I had a feeling,"_  Allison said warmly, her voice barely audible over Scott’s indiscriminate screeching.

 _“What, did everyone know but me?”_ Scott was squawking with increasing alarm.

“To be fair, Stiles didn’t know either,” Lydia said. She took out a tube of lip gloss and fixed her lips casually. Stiles could smell the faint scent of strawberries and cream. Lydia’s signature gloss. He’d written an essay about it his third year in primary school. “I spent all of yesterday convincing him that he was being bull-headed.”

 _“Stiles,”_ Scott reasoned. He was using his “authoritative” voice. It hadn’t really ever worked on Stiles, but he still tried every now and again. _“Are you really...Derek? Derek Hale? You two wanted to rip one another’s throats out a few months ago.”_

“I mean,” Stiles sniffed. “...yeah, I guess.”

Lydia fake-swooned. “How romantic, nothing gets me going like ‘I guess.’”

“This is hard for me, Lydia, don’t be an arse.”

Scott cleared his throat, and it was silent for a few minutes before he finally responded. _“Well, okay, then. Congratulations? How can I help?”_

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Like I said. Pep talk? Soon? That would be bomb.”

Scott coughed. _“Um, you’re really great. And really nice. Also, handsome, I think.”_

 _“Goddammit, Scott, you’re useless.”_  Allison grabbed the phone, Scott’s cries drowned out by the crinkling of fabric and a peal of girlish laughter. _“Stiles, listen to me. You’re an amazing friend. You’re funny, you’re smart, and you’re clever-but more than that, you’re so, so worthy of love. If Derek’s the person to give that to you, good. If not, you don’t need another person to complete you. We all love you! Go sweep him off his cleats!”_

Stiles laughed, and if there were tears beading in the corners of his eyes...Well. Lydia wasn't paying enough attention to see them, anyway. “See, Scott? Now that was a pep talk.”

_“Arse!”_

_“Alright, kiddo. Go get him,”_ Allison said sweetly. Stiles could hear her 1000-watt grin. _“Lydia, look after him for us. Let us know how everything goes.”_

“Can do, hon. See you soon, like I promised!”

They hung up, Scott’s last words ringing through the air.

_“You knew she was here, Allison?!”_

Lydia fixed his collar, then tweaked the angle on his gelled hair just slightly. She handed him two roses, red and yellow (“Manchester United colors” Lydia had said at the market), and gently nudged him in the direction of the hallway.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” she whispered with her careful kiss on his cheek, closing the door faintly behind a blinking and dazed Stiles.

He took a deep breath. Another. Then another.

And then he hesitantly approached Derek Hale, Manchester United number 20’s, door.

_No risk, no reward._

Stiles wasn’t quite sure when he’d knocked. All he knew is that one moment he was barely breathing, and the next, he wasn’t breathing at all.

“Stiles?” Derek asked, his wavy hair curled up around his ears. He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, barefoot, his glasses perched on his strong nose. His eyes flickered between the roses and Stiles’ face.

God, he was gorgeous.

Stiles bit his lip, then met his gaze, his head tilted just slightly forward. “Hey...can,” he exhaled.

“Can I come in?”

# ❀

Derek blinked, then swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, uh, sure. One second, let me just…” he glanced behind himself, then seemed to decide whatever he was going to say wasn’t worth the time. “Just come in, I guess, but...ignore the mess?”

Stiles took one final, longing glance at his door then stepped into Derek’s apartment.

What hit him first was the smell. Not bad, necessarily, just...lived in. A distinct, unmistakably “Derek” kind of odor. The sort of smell that told you someone had been wallowing. Old cardboard, unwashed afghans, mugs and law journals had all molded into the decor of Derek’s typically sleek living room.

What hit him next is how big that made his heart swell.

“So?” Derek said, shifting foot to foot, eying the flowers in Stiles’ hands and the uncharacteristic press and neatness of his clothes. He looked younger, somehow, like this. Vulnerable.

“Uh.” Stiles said, then looked down at his shoes. “Okay, I hope you don’t expect me to look at you when I say this.”

“Stiles, you’re kind of freaking me out.”

Stiles huffed, and a little laugh burst through his lips. “Yeah, I’m freaking myself out too.” He began picking at the plastic around the roses, clearing his throat. “I don’t really know how to say this, either?”

Derek snorted, but there wasn’t a lot of heart in it. “Stiles, I’m a man of few words. I’m sure whatever you manage will be fine.”

Stiles’ next words came out in a rush, without spaces, quick and high and  _impossible._ “Ilikeyou.”

Silence. Heart-shattering, earth-moving silence. Stiles felt his eyes involuntarily water, and his pulse pick up to the speed of a galloping racehorse. “I like you a lot, okay? I wasn’t quite sure how to place the feelings I was having, but Lydia came in yesterday, and we talked all night, and I realized how  _stupid_ it all was.”

Stiles couldn’t help but curl his lips in anger and disgust. “Because that’s what it was. It was  _stupid._ I was letting my worry cloud my better judgement, but not everything is like it was when  _I was a kid_.”

Stiles grabbed his hair, totally ruining the quiff Lydia had spent an actual hour on, and sighed. “And maybe it took losing my mom, one of the strongest people in my life, to see this, but I don’t need an anchor, Derek. I don’t need someone to sacrifice their happiness and well-being to keep me sheltered. I need a partner. And for fuck’s sake, we don’t need to let Kate run our lives from  _prison,_ you know?”

The room was practically a vacuum, for all that Stiles could tell. He screwed up his face in frustration.

“And if I like you, and you like me, it’s just  _stupid to not act on that!_ It’s  _so fucking stupid, Derek._ ”

He dragged his eyes from the ground to Derek’s face. Derek was quiet, expressionless.

Stiles laughed, but he could already feel the hurt, the heartbreak, blossoming in his chest.  “Dude, my heart is running the Kentucky Derby here. Could you say something? Like, if you don’t feel the same way, that’s fine? But, I mean, I just need to  _know_ and you’re not saying  _anything,_ and now I’m chattering away but I  _can’t help it, I..._ ”

And suddenly, Stiles couldn’t speak anymore.

His hands fell limply to his sides, the roses slipping through his fingers while he stared wide-eyed at Derek’s gently closed eyes, his lips capturing Stiles’ in an almost angry kiss. It was terse and frustrated, but relief seeped into it with every passing moment. It set his skin on  _fire._

Then Derek’s lips detached from his, the soft tip of Derek’s nose touching his cheek, the warmth of his breath dancing across Stiles’ jawline.

“Oh,” Stiles breathed. Their eyes met, then Stiles’ lips curled into a smile that made his cheeks ache, and he recaptured Derek in a warm kiss.

But this one was soft and gentle, a sort of mutual understanding that communicated everything they couldn’t quite put into words. It was quiet, thoughtful, exploratory.

This one didn’t set him on fire. This one made his heart swell with something too dangerous and early to call anything at all.

“You realize,” Derek whispered, his forehead resting against Stiles’ and the frames of his glasses pressing up against his temples, “That I’ve been waiting literal  _months_ for you to say that.”

Stiles whacked his arm, shattering the moment in a way that somehow felt  _right_. Because that’s who he and Derek were. They weren’t going to be the couple that recited honey-slick poetry and drew their names in hearts. They were going to be the couple that left passive-aggressive notes on empty boxes of cereal and insulted each others’ outfits.

_Couple._

“Are you fucking kidding me, Derek? You spent the first eight weeks of our friendship insulting me.”

Derek let a coy smile worm across his face, burying his nose in Stiles’ hair. “I never said I was good at showing my feelings, just that I had them.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles muttered, the whole of his body full of what must’ve been a hive of the world’s warmest bees. He was practically vibrating. “So, are we…? Is this?”

Derek inched away from him, and Stiles could already feel a low whine brewing in his throat. But Derek met his eyes, picking up the roses and giving him a meaningful look. “Stiles, this is whatever you want or need it to be.” He set the flowers on his table.

Stiles’ mouth move to speak, but no words came out.

Derek fixed his glasses.

“I’ve been in love with you for an irresponsible amount of time.”

Stiles squeaked, and Derek help up a hand. “But, I know that you’re not there, and you may never be. I just want to be with you, Stiles. I was worried I’d ruined our friendship the other night, that...that I’d lost you in the only capacity that I’d ever actually had you. But this…”

Derek bit his lip, failing to suppress a bright, embarrassed smiled. It looked natural, somehow, even though smiling was the most foreign thing that Derek Hale could’ve possibly done. “Well, this is better than I ever dared dream I could have.”

Stiles snatched the roses from their spot on his table and threw them at Derek. “Oh my  _god,_ Derek, you can’t just  _say that._ I can literally can feel how red I am. You could roast a marshmallow on my face,  _are you kidding me._ ”

“You’re appallingly red, that’s true.”

“It’s your fault, you  _arse,_ I - mhm!”

Warm. Warm. Warm. Soft.

Derek pulled away, a grin toying at his lips. Stiles glowered. “You can’t just shut me up by kissing me now, that’s not going to work.”

Derek quirked a brow, and Stiles swallowed. “Oh really?” He said. His tone was teasing, but the feeling in Stiles’ gut was serious.

Derek growled and captured his lips again, pulling away after a moment and leaving Stiles breathless.

“Because I think it already has.”

# ❀

 

“Verdict?” Lydia demanded, the second Stiles had reentered his now-pristine apartment. Her foot was tapping a frantic tune on his floor, the only sign of stress in her otherwise flawless facade the even “ _click, click, click”_ of her pointed, glossy red heel.

When Derek entered a second behind him, his fingers loosely twined with Stiles’, Lydia  _beamed_ and the noise abruptly stopped. “Ah, well, I think I can surmise.”

Stiles groaned, then angled his head toward a faint, rhythmic huffing that was suddenly audible without Lydia’s panicked metronome of a shoe. Derek went to speak, but Stiles held a finger to his lips. “Lydia, are Allison and Scott on the table?”

She glanced down at her phone, its screen brightly lit and still scrolling text in Italian. “Whatever are you talking about, Stiles?” She asked innocently.

“I can hear Scott breathing. He’s a mouth-breather.”

Stiles heard an “oof!” from his table. It was most certainly Allison hitting Scott in some fashion. _“Dammit, Scott, you've gotten us found out! How are we supposed to listen in if you sound like a Bissell -”_

“ _Ow, Allison, you can’t just hit me!”_

Lydia rolled her eyes and exited out of whatever app she was trying to use to mask the call. “Well, they did want to hear about everything, but Scott’s making it impossible to be subtle, so now we’re just going to have to make Derek feel even more uncomfortable. Congratulations, Scott.”

“ _How was I supposed...”_

“Anyway!” Lydia cut in. She held out a hand, offering a quirk of her lips. “Hi, Derek! It’s great to finally meet you in person! I’m Lydia Martin, but you may know me as -”

“Ah, our healer,” Derek said, shaking her hand brusquely. The easiest way to impress Lydia had always been a firm handshake. From this look of this one, Derek was about to pass the first test. “You’ve saved us more than once.”

Lydia’s mouth curled into a glossy smile much wider than it had initially been. “Well, now, you’re even better-looking in person. Deep voice, too. Congratulations, Stiles.”

He had. Stiles flushed. “Oh my god,  _stop._ ”

“Ew, please never talk about Derek like that again,” he heard from his table.

Derek laughed. It sounded rich. Relieved. “I don’t think that’s going to stop, Stiles has begun waxing poetic about my arse already. The moment he had permission it was a free-for-all. We would’ve been earlier, but he had to finish a sonnet he’d just constructed about it on the spot.”

Lydia hummed thoughtfully. “Seriously. You can’t see them right now, but Stiles has the world’s  _biggest heart eyes.”_

“When did this become about torturing me?!” Stiles squawked. “And you!” He jabbed a finger into Derek’s chest. “We’ve been dating for, like, fifteen minutes and I’m already going to make you sleep on the couch.”

“We don’t live together.”

“I will  _make you stay the night,_ then  _forcibly put you on the couch,”_ he said shrilly.

 _“He would actually do that,”_ Scott piped in.

Derek rolled his eyes, but it was rather fondly. “The scary thing is, I know he would.”

“You’re dating that,” Lydia pointed out. “All 165 pounds of that walking disaster. You know, the one who forgot what dungeon we were in last night because he was too busy sulking and eating carrot sticks to  _read the map_.”

Stiles sniffed. “They weren’t carrot sticks, they were celery sticks with peanut butter. Carrots are too expensive.”

Derek gave him a concerned look.  It shouldn’t have made him feel as guilty as it did. “Have you been eating enough?”

Stiles ground his toe into the carpet. “I’m fine.”

“Stiles, I’m serious.”

“Oh my god, Derek, I’m fine,  _seriously_.” He met Derek’s eyes. “Really,” he said, more quietly.

Lydia sighed. “Are you two done with your domestic? Stiles was just moping too much to go to the store. We got him a proper fridge full of food, don’t worry.”

Derek’s eyes softened. “Were you really too upset to go out?”

Lydia threw her hands up in front of her eye-line. “Oh god, look away, Allison, now Derek is making heart eyes.”

 _“I’m on the phone, I can’t look anywhere?”_ Allison seemed confused. Scott snorted.

Stiles gnawed his lip. “Lydia, can you stop narrating our relationship? It’s…” What was it, exactly? “Tacky.”

“You invited me here sweetheart.”

 _“You actually sort of invited yourself,”_ Allison said,  _truthfully,_ and Lydia quickly cupped her hands over the speaker.

“Shh, shh, Allison, darling, I liked you better when you were just hitting Scott into submission,” she said quietly.

 _“I didn’t!”_ Scott screeched.

Stiles groaned. “Are you all quite done? Or do Allison and Scott need additional adjectives about Derek and I’s eyes?”

Lydia’s expression sparkled with mischief. “Well, not Allison and Scott...”

“You didn’t!” Stiles squeaked.

Derek’s brows raised another fraction of an inch, until they’d practically met his hairline. “She didn’t what?”

Lydia grinned. "Not yet."

Oh,  _shite._

# ❀

“This is appalling,” was Stiles’ response. “I have seen burlap sacks more fashionable than this garment. I wouldn’t wish this on a single living soul.” He paused. “Not even Jackson.”

Lou mewed in agreement, then promptly knocked over a cup and darted under the couch.

Stiles sighed.

It had taken exactly one day for a gloating Isaac Lahey to appear at Stiles’ apartment door, infuriatingly certain that Derek was already there, as well.

Lydia had left that morning, but it hadn’t stopped her from dropping every “delicious morsel” (her words, not his) of his and Derek’s 24 hour relationship in a series of text messages to Isaac that Stiles had caught her constructing around two in the morning, with a cup of steamy herbal tea by her side.

Isaac was right, of course, that Derek was already over. In fact, he’d yet to leave. But that didn’t mean he had to be  _happy_ about it.

And if they were both a little worse for the wear and ruffled in all the most conspicuous places, Isaac hadn’t said anything, only given them a knowing look that made Stiles feel 16 again.

Christ.

Isaac snorted and closed the door behind him. He was holding a garish red Manchester United jersey:  _Derek Hale’s Sexy Boyfriend_ was emblazoned across the back, with a “69” in big, white letters beneath. “We’ve literally had this waiting and ready in storage since that sexually frustrating game of Monopoly at Derek’s apartment, like, ages ago. You don’t have to wear it to the game, at least, not until you’re proper out as a couple, but at home…”

“Isaac!” Derek barked, but his face was an entirely unintimidating pink.

Isaac shrugged, his eyes full of mirth. “We’re happy for you, Derek. We know you’ve been after this one for awhile.”

Derek scowled.

Stiles gawped. “Wait,  _what._ How long have you actually known...” He paused and gestured to himself in a suggestive sort of manner. “That he wanted all this?”

“Erm.” Isaac gave him a sheepish look. Derek groaned. “I suspected he was attracted to you before the Gala, but that sort of confirmed it for me. Nothing says “love” in  _grumpy, repressed footie player_ like just kind of...accepting a glass of wine to the face.”

Stiles tried to hide his laugh with a cough, but it turned into one anyway. Derek was actually growling now. “Wait, wait, did you ask me to that to try and trick Derek into realizing he  _liked_ me?”

Isaac winked. “Well, yeah. But if it hadn’t worked so well, you’re not exactly bad to look at.”

“Can you stop flirting with him,  _please,_ ” Derek managed, through clenched teeth and scrunched eyes, one hand on his temples, the other wrapped protectively around Stiles’ shoulders.

“So protective,” Isaac laughed. “Keep an eye on him, Stiles.” He handed Stiles the shirt. “He’s going to start threatening your shower for getting to see you naked more than he does.”

“Not if I’m in it with him,” Derek murmured, and Stiles went red all the way to the tips of his ears. His hands tightened around the fabric.

“Annnnd, I think that’s my signal to get going,” Isaac said, peeking down at his kitschy pink phone. Even his cheeks were splashed with something that vaguely resembled embarrassment. “I have to meet Allison and Scott for lunch, anyway.”

“Alright, Isaac,” Stiles said, he could feel Derek’s hand slipping up the back of his shirt, and his voice getting higher and higher with every passing moment. “Have a good time!”

Isaac gave them the kind of lecherous look he’d practically patented.

“You too,” he said, before shutting the door with a knowing grin.


	13. Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually going to cry, this is the end of an era.

⚽

**♪ _Can't Help Falling in Love With You ~_ Hailey Reinhart ♪**

⚽

* * *

 

 _Stilinator_ _:_ I want you to tell me, Derek.

AlphaH : You already know, Stiles. Your dad tried the case. You’ve read the files.

_Stilinator_ : I know. But I want to hear it from you.

AlphaH: You want to hear about my family being murdered?

_Stilinator_ : I want to hear about your history. From you. Not the tabloids. Not Kate’s statement. Not your testimony. You. I want to know who you are, not who the papers, the lawyers, and the courts think you are.

AlphaH: I’ll be home tomorrow. Can we talk about it then?

_Stilinator_ _: We can talk about it whenever you’d like._

* * *

 

Derek wasn’t sure exactly how he’d gotten here, but he wasn’t sure of a lot of things, so that didn’t really surprise him terribly much.

That wasn’t entirely true.  
  
Derek was sure about Stiles.

“Der-bear, sugar tits, you’re not wearing your red tie to the trial. It’s ugly and I hate it. You wear enough red during games, I want to see you in another colour for fucking _once._ ”

Derek tried not to smile, the corners of his mouth aching with the effort. “Oh? I thought it was your favorite tie.”

Stiles mouth twisted into something bordering on anguish, and he threw up his hands with the kind of frustrated and borderline-dangerous flailing the Derek had come to know quite well. “Derek, if you legitimately thought I liked that tie, I’m actually going to leave you.”

Derek sighed, but there wasn’t a lot of heart in it. He undid the tie and tossed it on his bed. It fell somewhere in the mussed covers, never to be seen again. Probably. They still couldn’t find Stiles’ favorite pants. “No, I didn’t actually think you liked that tie, but it’s the only one I have that isn’t rumpled to all hell and we don’t have time to try and fix the others.”

Stiles grinned up at him, placing his hands over Derek’s cheeks and planting a kiss on his forehead. “Good thing I have a green tie that I just _happened_ to have ready for you and that I’ve just _happened_ to bring over with me.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Stiles hummed and slipped the tie deftly around Derek’s neck, tying it with seamlessly nimble fingers. “I’m a man who knows what he likes.”

“I’m assuming that’s me.”

Stiles gave him a wink. “It is you. Specifically, you in the color green.” He finished the knot and patted Derek’s chest. His fingers lingered just briefly, before he gently removed his hand and gave Derek a bright grin. “There. Much better.”

“Did you plan this entire thing?”

Stiles’ lips curled into a more mischievous smile. He fixed his own tie in Derek’s vanity. “I may have intentionally rumpled some of your lesser ties this weekend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’ collar, pulling him close. “Oh, I suppose you think you’re quite clever, don’t you?”

Stiles darted a peck against Derek’s lips, letting out a full-throated laugh that echoed all the way through Derek’s spacious two-bedroom apartment. “Well, someone thinks I am, at least.”

“Yes, yes, we all know you’re incredibly clever, Mr. ‘I’ve Been Accepted to College Already,’” Derek brushed a lock of Stiles’ hair from his eyes. It was really quite long. Derek knew Stiles’ mother had liked it that way. So did he. “I’m proud of you.”

“Derek, oh my _god,_ don’t make me cry. If I show up to court puffy-eyed my father’s going to think you’re beating me or something,” Stiles wiped fruitlessly at his unmarred cheeks, slapping a bit of color into them. He laced his fingers through Derek’s. “Are you ready?”

Derek looked back at Stiles, the thrill of what he knew in his heart would be a denied appeal second only to the anchoring of Stiles’ smooth, long fingers.

When he had him, how could he not be?

Derek smiled and squeezed Stiles' hand.

“With you here? Always."


End file.
